Moran considered.
“Anything cold?”
The bartender rubbed his chin ruefully.
“Not that I’ve seen. Been pretty hot lately.”
“I guess I don’t want anything, thank you.”
“Uh-huh.”
The bartender went back to his novel, and Moran sat down near the two cowboys.
“I’m Franklyn Moran,” he told them, “from Chicago. I own the Big 4 ranch near Turquoise City.”
“What former experience have you had, and why did you leave your last place?” queried the blue-eyed cowboy seriously.
“Eh?” said Moran.