In silence the Mexican obeyed, and in equal silence returned to his work.
Appetites are keen on the prairie, and not until the meal was complete was there further conversation. Then after, one by one, the cowmen had filed out of doors, the host produced two corn-cob pipes from a shelf on the wall and tendered one across the littered table.
"Smoke?" he again invited laconically.
The visitor fumbled in the pockets of his coat and drew out a couple of cigars.
"Better have one of these instead," he suggested.
Hawkins accepted in silence, and thereafter—for cigars were a rarity on the frontier—puffed half the length of the weed in wordless content. The Mexican went impassively about his work, cleared the table and washed the dishes methodically. The labour complete, he rolled a cigarette swiftly and, followed by a vanishing trail of blue, disappeared likewise out of doors. Then, and not until then, the visitor introduced himself.
"My name's Manning, Bob Manning," he said. "I run the store over at the Centre."
The host scrutinised his guest, deliberately, reminiscently
"I thought there was something familiar about you," he commented at last. "I haven't seen you for twenty years; but I remember you now. You're one of the bunch who was with Bill Landor that time he picked up the two kids."
It was the guest's turn to make critical inspection.