Tresler hazarded another question. He felt strange in this company. It was his first real acquaintance with a prairie settlement, and he didn’t quite know what to expect.
“I wonder if there is any one to see to my horse,” he said with some hesitation.
“Hitch him to the tie-post an’ ast in ther’,” observed the uncommunicative man, pointing to a post a few yards from the door, but without losing interest in the other’s nether garments.
“That sounds reasonable.”
Tresler moved off and secured his horse and loosened the saddle-girths.
“Pardon me, sir,” he said, when he came back, his well-trimmed six feet towering over the other’s five feet four. “Might I ask whom I have the pleasure of addressing? My name is John Tresler; I am on my way to Mosquito Bend, Julian Marbolt’s ranch. A stranger, you see, in a strange land. No doubt you have observed that already,” he finished up good-naturedly.
But the other’s attention was not to be diverted from the interesting spectacle of the corduroys, and he answered without shifting his gaze.
“My name’s Ranks—gener’ly called ‘Slum.’ Howdy.”
“Well, Mr. Ranks——”