The man was eyeing the yellow-headed figure with no very friendly eyes, but this fact was lost upon Scipio, who saw in him only a fellow man in misfortune. He saw the lariat on the horn of the saddle, the man’s chapps, his hard-muscled broncho pony gazing longingly at the water. The guns at the man’s waist, the scowling brow and shifty eyes passed quite unobserved.
“Wher’ you from?” demanded the man sharply.
“Suffering Creek,” replied Scipio readily.
“Guess you’ve come quite a piece,” said the other, after a considering pause.
“I sure have.”
“What you doin’ here?”
The man’s inquiry rapped out smartly. But Scipio had no suspicion of anybody, and answered quite without hesitation.
“I’m huntin’ a man called James. You ain’t seen him?”
But the man countered his question with another.
“What’s your name?” he asked.