“That’s my business. Now go home.” Amos went. And as he hurried home he noticed a light in the living-room of the sheriff’s home.
Perhaps at any other time Amos would not have given this a thought, but just now his nerves were in such a state that everything looked suspicious.
The big stranger with the damp nose had engaged a room at a little hotel, left his bundle there and gone to the War Path saloon, where he got into a poker game. In a little while Cloudy McGee came in, bought a drink and tackled the roulette wheel.
Several times the damp-nosed stranger glanced at Cloudy and found him looking. The first time they nodded, but the other glances were of suspicion instead of friendship.
“You’ve got a bad cold, stranger,” observed the dealer.
“Yea-a-ah—dab id.”
“You ought to take something for it.”
“I hab,” the stranger swallowed heavily.
“’F I was you I’d see a doctor,” declared one of the players. “I had a friend that died from pneumonia. Started just like your cold.”
“I thig I’ll see a doctor in the mornig—dab id.”