“I’d better go up there,” said she. Her lips grew bloodless as she spoke and there was a look of effort and pain in her face.
“No; I don’t think so. But if you’ll go over to the town and see that Torrey gets his place cleaned up a bit, I suppose some of the passengers will be coming in pretty soon.”
She made a quick gesture of repulsion. “Women can’t go to Torrey’s,” she said. “It’s too filthy. Besides—I’ll take in the women, if there aren’t too many and I can pick up a buckboard in Manzanita.”
He nodded. “That’ll be better, if any come in. Give me their names, won’t you? I have to keep track of them, you know.”
The manner of the two was that of familiars, of friends, though there was a touch of deference in Banneker’s bearing, too subtly personal to be attributed to his official status. He went out to adjust the visitor’s poncho, and, swinging her leg across the Mexican saddle of her horse with the mechanical ease of one habituated to this mode of travel, she was off.
Again the agent returned to his unofficial task and was instantly submerged in it. Impatiently he interrupted himself to light the lamps and at once resumed his pen. An emphatic knock at his door only caused him to shake his head. The summons was repeated. With a sigh Banneker gathered the written sheets, enclosed them in 5 S 0027, and restored that receptacle to its place. Meantime the knocking continued impatiently, presently pointed by a deep—
“Any one inside there?”
“Yes,” said Banneker, opening to face the bulky old man who had cared for the wounded. “What’s wanted?”
Uninvited, and with an assured air, the visitor stepped in.
“I am Horace Vanney,” he announced.