Bob tied his saddle horse to the rail, leaving the pack animal to its own devices. Without attention to the curious stares of the loafers, he pushed into the first store, and asked directions of the proprietor. The man, a type of the transplanted Yankee, pushed the spectacles up over his forehead, and coolly surveyed his questioner from head to foot before answering.
"I see you're a ranger," he remarked drily. "Well, I wouldn't go to Samuels's if I was you. He's give it out that he'll kill the next ranger that sets foot on his place."
"I've heard that sort of talk before," replied Bob impatiently.
"Samuels means what he says," stated the storekeeper. "He drove off the last of you fellows with a shotgun—and he went too."
"You haven't told me how to get there," Bob pointed out.
"All you have to do is to turn to the right at the white church and follow your nose," replied the man curtly.
"How far is it?"
"About four mile."
"Thank you," said Bob, and started out.
The man let him get to the door.