“Bunk!” ejaculated Burnham. “This isn’t the easiest city in the world for a stranger to find his way about in--and Miller got around it like it was his own dooryard. Without asking, usually. When he did ask it was about some part of the town that has changed the last few years. If he never was in San ’Ntonio before, I never saw a tarantula.” “And he wanted information regarding Locke, eh? What sort? And where did he go for it? Did he see any of the gang we are watching?” Ranger Burnham answered the last question first. “No, not one. His inquiries were made in exactly the places you would expect them to be made if he is exactly who he says he is--a business man, a stranger, who has a proposition that he is half thinking of putting up to Locke if the replies to his inquiries are satisfactory. He has been to banks, to the chamber of commerce, to a big business man or two. He has good business credentials--from Buenos Aires. The questions he asked, however, had very little to do with Locke’s business standing. They were mostly personal.” “In what way?” “As to his character and habits. What sort of a man is he? Does he drink? Does he gamble? Does he run around nights? If so, where?” “H’m!” grunted Carmichael. “Wants to know where to find him after dark, eh?” “It looks that way. And right in that connection comes a thing that could be mighty significant. Less than half an hour ago he got him a gun--a .45--and a box of cartridges.” “Where?” Burnham named the store. “Tucked it down into his pants--he’s handled a .45 before, I’d say, from the way he did it--and then came here to the hotel. He has just gone up to his room.” Captain Carmichael considered briefly. “If he’s come here on some errand with Locke for that Tarbox outfit--and those questions look like he wants to know when and where to find him at bed hours,” he said, “he isn’t likely to lose any time. And with a gun hung on him----” The captain crossed to where his own holstered pistol had been laid on the bed while he made his toilet, strapped it on, and reached for his coat. “I reckon the time has come to ask Mister Miller what his game is,” he said. “Him toting a pistol that-a-way without any permit to do so gives me a good excuse. I’ll make him a little unannounced call. Go get your supper; I’ll see you downstairs afterward.” He already knew the location of Miller’s room. Three minutes later he tapped on the door. A deep voice called, “Come!” and Carmichael entered. The Argentinian stood facing him from near the bathroom entrance, not a dozen feet away, and instantly, without a word, when he saw the Ranger he went after his gun. It was not a fight; it was too one-sided and over too quickly to be called that.