His reply had subtle reaction on that listening circle. Some of the men exchanged glances. Fletcher stroked his drooping mustache, seemed thoughtful, but lost something of that piercing scrutiny.
“Wal, Ord's the jumpin'-off place,” he said, presently. “Sure you've heerd of the Big Bend country?”
“I sure have, an' was makin' tracks fer it,” replied the stranger.
Fletcher turned toward a man in the outer edge of the group. “Knell, come in heah.”
This individual elbowed his way in and was seen to be scarcely more than a boy, almost pale beside those bronzed men, with a long, expressionless face, thin and sharp.
“Knell, this heah's—” Fletcher wheeled to the stranger. “What'd you call yourself?”
“I'd hate to mention what I've been callin' myself lately.”
This sally fetched another laugh. The stranger appeared cool, careless, indifferent. Perhaps he knew, as the others present knew, that this show of Fletcher's, this pretense of introduction, was merely talk while he was looked over.
Knell stepped up, and it was easy to see, from the way Fletcher relinquished his part in the situation, that a man greater than he had appeared upon the scene.
“Any business here?” he queried, curtly. When he spoke his expressionless face was in strange contrast with the ring, the quality, the cruelty of his voice. This voice betrayed an absence of humor, of friendliness, of heart.