A man rose from a seat against a tree trunk.
“Good evenin’, stranger,” said he.
“Good evening,” responded Johnny guardedly.
“You are the man who stuck up Scar-face Charley in Morton’s place, ain’t you?”
“What’s that to you?” replied Johnny. “Are you a friend of his?”
His habitual air of young carelessness had fallen from him; his eye was steady and frosty, his face set in stern lines. Before my wondering eyes he had grown ten years older in the last six hours. The other was lounging toward us–a short, slight man, with flaxen moustache and eyebrows, 273 a colourless face, pale blue eyes, and a bald forehead from which the hat had been pushed back. He was chewing a straw.
“Well, I was just inquirin’ in a friendly sort of way,” replied the newcomer peaceably.
“I don’t know you,” stated Johnny shortly, “nor who you’re friends to, nor your camp. I deny your right to ask questions. Good night.”
“Well, good night,” agreed the other, still peaceable. “I reckon I gather considerable about you, anyhow.” He turned away. “I had a notion from what I heard that you was sort of picked on, and I dropped round, sort of friendly like; but Lord love you! I don’t care how many of you desperadoes kill each other. Go to it, and good riddance!” He cast his pale blue eyes on Johnny’s rigid figure. “Also, go to hell!” he remarked dispassionately.
Johnny stared at him puzzled.