"First time he ever ate here to my knowledge," said the bartender. "He's got a home an' a Injun woman to cook."
"It's the little tumble-weeds show how the wind blows," thought Loudon to himself, and sat down in a corner of the barroom and pondered deeply.
A few minutes later he removed his cartridge-belt, hung it on the back of his chair, and composed himself ostensibly to doze. His three-quarter shut eyes, however, missed nothing that went on in the barroom.
Archer and his lanky friend entered and draped themselves over the bar. Loudon, after a brief space of time, arose, stretched, and yawningly stumbled upstairs. He lay down on his cot and smoked one cigarette after another, his eyes on the ceiling.
Laguerre wandered in, and Loudon uttered cogent sentences in a whisper. Laguerre grinned delightedly. His perverted sense of humour was aroused. Loudon did not smile. What he believed to be impending gave him no pleasure.
"Guess I'll go down," announced Loudon, when an hour had elapsed. "No sense in delayin' too long."
"No," said Laguerre, "no sense een dat."
He followed his friend downstairs.
"Seems to me I took it off in here," Loudon flung back over his shoulder, as though in response to a question. "Shore, there it is."
He walked across the barroom to where his cartridge-belt and six-shooter hung on the back of a chair. He buckled on the belt, Archer and his lanky friend watching him the while.