When the bottle and the three glasses had been returned to their appointed place between the horse liniment and the spare handcuffs, Riley moved listlessly to the front window and drummed on the pane.
"Oh, the devil," Riley groaned. "Here's work for li'l boys. As if there wasn't enough to do in summer."
"Good thing to-day's a chinook," remarked Shillman, without interest.
Billy joined Riley at the window. "Looks like Simon Reelfoot. It's Simon's horse, anyway. It is Simon. I can see his long nose."
Riley squinted at the approaching man. "I wonder what he wants."
"I thought maybe I'd ask him when he comes in," said Billy.
"I would," observed Riley. "That'll show you're interested in your job. It'll please Simon, too. He'll think you've got his interests at heart. After that shall I kick him out, or will you let Shotgun bite him?"
For Simon Reelfoot was not well thought of by the more decent portion of the community. Men that put money out at high interest and are careless of their neighbors' property usually aren't. It was said of him that he still had the first nickel that he ever earned. Certainly he was not a generous person. Three women, at one time and another, had been unlucky enough to marry him. Each wife died within two years of her marriage—murdered by her husband. Not in such a way, however, that the law could take its proper course and hang Simon by the neck till he was dead. The murders were done in a perfectly legal manner and all above-board—overwork and undernourishment. The two in conjunction will kill anything that lives and breathes. So Simon, if not a murderer, was at least an accomplice before and after the fact. A cheerful creature, indeed. There were no children.
Something of all that Simon was and stood for passed through Riley Wingo's mind as he stood with Riley at the window.
"He always keeps his horses in good condition," said Billy.