He put the package into his pocket, and his eyes squinted at the sheriff’s star on Brick’s shirt.
“Sheriff, eh?” he queried.
“Uh-huh,” smiled Brick. “We have to carry our label—like a can of tomatoes.”
“Or a box of dynamite,” added the stranger dryly. “Well, I reckon I’ll be driftin’ on. Much obliged for the tobacco, sheriff. Adiós.”
Brick and Harp nodded and rode on up the grades. At the top of the long climb they drew up their horses and looked back. The stranger was but a tiny speck, moving slowly down the cañon.
“Didja ever see him before, Brick?” queried Harp.
“Nope. But there’s somethin’ about him that reminds me of somebody.”
“Me too,” nodded Harp. “I ain’t got the slightest idea who he looks like though. Sure wears a fancy lot of leather. I hate to see a feller hammer his chaps full of rivets that-a-way.”
They rode on along the narrow grades and drew up at the Red Hill mine office. Barney Devine, a slight, hatchet-faced, nervous sort of a person, met them at the office door and greeted them effusively.
“How’s tricks, Barney?” asked Brick, stretching his legs in one of Barney’s comfortable chairs and accepting a cigar.