“I’m sorry, Mr. Inger,” said the man, respectfully. “You’ll have to bring somebody here who knows you. A resident.”
“There ain’t a resident of nothing this side the Rockies that ever laid eyes to me,” said the Inger. “You guess twice.”
The clerk meditated.
“Haven’t you got your name on something about you?” he said softly.
The Inger thought. He rarely had a letter, he never carried one. He had never in his life owned a business card or an embroidered initial. Suddenly his face cleared.
“You bet!” he cried, and drew his six-shooter, which the men at the mines had given him, and levelled it through the bars.
“There’s my name on the handle,” he said. “Want I should fire, just to prove it’s mine?”
The man hesitated, glanced once about the office, looked in the Inger’s eyes,—and risked his job.
“That’ll be sufficient,” said he. “But if you’ll allow me, you’d best cover that thing up.”