"Who's the gent?"
"Drummer. Dunno his name."
"Didn't Block—you know, Sheriff Block o' Fort Creek—didn't he stop here a day or two ago? He must 'a' come through Rocket."
"Shore he did. But he ain't no stranger. I see him as many as two or three times a year. Shore he come through Rocket. He had a drink here day before yest'day. Goin' to the Bend, he said."
"Well, if he stops on his way back tell him Tom Loudon was askin' for him. Old friend o' mine, the sheriff is. Just tell him yuh know me, an' he'll set 'em up for the whole town."
"I expect," grinned the landlord. "Was you wantin' beds, gents?"
"That's us," grunted Scotty. "Me, I'm asleep from the neck down. Show me that bed, Mister."
Loudon, sitting on the edge of his sway-backed cot, pulled off his boots, dropped them clattering on the floor, and looked across at Scotty Mackenzie.
"Block didn't send that letter—or write it," he said, sliding his long body under the blanket.
"How do yuh know?" came in muffled tones from Scotty.