He drew up at their approach, removed his sombrero to wipe his forehead, disclosing a mop of tow-colored hair. His face was bony of contour, nose slightly crooked. Neither Brick nor Harp had ever seen the man before, but there was something familiar about him—a resemblance to someone they had known.
He was wearing a faded blue shirt, nondescript vest, chaps that were heavy with nickel and brass trimmings, matching the design on his cartridge-belt and holster. The horse was a tall, powerfully built sorrel.
“Is this the road to Marlin City?” he asked.
“Y’betcha,” nodded Brick. “Stay on it and you’ll hit Marlin.”
“Good! By golly, I’ve been on so many wrong roads that it’ll sure be a surprize to hit the right one once. Say, have yuh got any smokin’?”
Brick handed him a package.
“Gosh, that’s fine, stranger. I tried to buy some Durham back at that mine, but they didn’t have any. I reckon them hon-yocks all chaw or snuff. Much obliged.”
He handed back the package, but Brick shook his head.
“You keep it. You’ll need another smoke soon.”
“Well, all right—thanks.”