CHAPTER III
THE TABLES TURNED
From the local eastbound a man swung to the station platform at Mesa. He was a dark, slim, little man, wiry and supple, with restless black eyes which pierced one like bullets.
The depot loungers made him a focus of inquiring looks. But, in spite of his careless ease, a shrewd observer would have read anxiety in his bearing. It was as if behind the veil of his indifference there rested a perpetual vigilance. The wariness of a beast of prey lay close to the surface.
“Mornin’, gentlemen,” he drawled, sweeping the group with his eyes.
“Mornin’,” responded one of the loafers.
“I presume some of you gentlemen can direct me to the house of Mayor Lee.”
“The mayor ain’t to home,” volunteered a lank, unshaven native in butternut jeans and boots.
“I think it was his house I inquired for,” suggested the stranger.