A moment later he started a little, and hardly conscious of what he was doing, turned his head partly around and listened.
“Oh, my God,” Carhart was saying, as if he did not hear his own voice, “what a night!”
They pulled up before the Frisco Hotel at Red Hills. The time had come to throw the cards face up on the table.
“See to the animals yourself, will you, Byers?” said Carhart. He dismounted, patted the quivering shoulder of his little horse, and then handed the reins to his companion. “I don’t want to wear out Arizona too.”
Byers nodded, and Carhart walked up to the hotel steps. His eyes swept the veranda, and finally rested on two men who were talking together earnestly, and almost, it might seem, angrily, at one end. He had never seen either before; but one, the nearer, with the florid countenance and the side whiskers, he knew at once for Commodore Durfee. He paused on the steps, and tried to make out the other—a big, fat man with the trimmed, gray chin-beard, the hard mouth, and the shaven upper lip which we associate with pioneering days. It was—no—yes, it was—it must be—General Carrington.
Carhart had intended to take a room and make himself presentable. He changed his mind. Hot and dusty as he was, dressed almost like a cowboy, he walked rapidly down the piazza.
“Mr. Durfee?”
The magnate turned slowly and looked up.
“Well?” he inquired.