That brought a broad smile to faces. It was characteristic greeting. One and all trooped after the stranger into the hotel. It was a dark, ill-smelling barn of a place, with a bar as high as a short man's head. A bartender with a scarred face was serving drinks.
“Line up, gents,” said the stranger.
They piled over one another to get to the bar, with coarse jests and oaths and laughter. None of them noted that the stranger did not appear so thirsty as he had claimed to be. In fact, though he went through the motions, he did not drink at all.
“My name's Jim Fletcher,” said the tall man with the drooping, sandy mustache. He spoke laconically, nevertheless there was a tone that showed he expected to be known. Something went with that name. The stranger did not appear to be impressed.
“My name might be Blazes, but it ain't,” he replied. “What do you call this burg?”
“Stranger, this heah me-tropoles bears the handle Ord. Is thet new to you?”
He leaned back against the bar, and now his little yellow eyes, clear as crystal, flawless as a hawk's, fixed on the stranger. Other men crowded close, forming a circle, curious, ready to be friendly or otherwise, according to how the tall interrogator marked the new-comer.
“Sure, Ord's a little strange to me. Off the railroad some, ain't it? Funny trails hereabouts.”
“How fur was you goin'?”
“I reckon I was goin' as far as I could,” replied the stranger, with a hard laugh.