"I'm trailin' yuh," said Loudon, dismounting.
He flung the reins over Ranger's head and followed the cordial individual into the saloon. While they stood at the bar Loudon took stock of the other man.
He was a good-looking young fellow, strong-chinned, straight-mouthed, with brown hair and eyes. His expression was winning, too winning, and there was a certain knowing look in his eye that did not appeal to Loudon. The latter drank his whisky slowly, his brain busily searching for the key to the other man's conduct.
"Gambler, I guess," he concluded. "I must look like ready money. Here's where one tinhorn gets fooled."
After commenting at some length on the extraordinary dryness of the season, Loudon's bottle-acquaintance, under cover of the loud-voiced conversation of three punchers at the other end of the bar, said in a low tone:
"Couldn't Sam come?"
Loudon stared. The other noted his mystification, and mistook it.
"I'm Pete O'Leary," he continued. "It's all right."
"Shore it is," conceded the puzzled Loudon. "My name's Loudon. Have another."
The knowing look in Pete O'Leary's eyes was displaced by one of distrust. He drank abstractedly, mumbled an excuse about having to see a man, and departed.