The man was of medium stature, looking small beside the towering form of his host. He was dressed quietly and well, trousers still preserving the lines left by the tailor's iron, his coat fitting closely about the compact muscular shoulders, his soft shirt white and clean. He was a sandy haired man of forty, perhaps, clean shaven, square jawed, with very bright, very clear brown eyes. All this Thornton saw at one swift glance. He tossed his hat to the table, pulled another chair toward him, and sat down. "Glad you made yourself at home," he said then, "Find anything to eat?" The stranger nodded. "I've been here three hours, and I was hungry. So I raided the bunk house." "That's right." He brought out his paper and tobacco, making his cigarette slowly, his eyes alone asking the other his business. "I want a little talk with you, Mr. Thornton. But maybe I'd better wait until you've eaten?" "Had my supper an hour ago," Thornton replied. "Made camp with the boys before I came in. Fire away, Stranger." "All right. First thing, my name's Comstock." The keen eyes which had measured the cowboy as he came through the door were very bright upon him now. Thornton nodded. The name meant nothing to him. "Don't get me?" laughed Comstock. "Well, well, it's a shock to vanity, but after all one's fame is a poor crippled bird that doesn't fly far." He paused a moment, then added quietly, as though this other information might help his bird "to fly." "My stamping ground's New Mexico." Thornton's look showed nothing beyond a faint curiosity; one would have said that he was as little interested in this man's stamping ground as in his name. "One more try," laughed Comstock easily, "and I'll give up. Two-Hand Billy Comstock.... Aha, I get you now!" For now Buck Thornton started and his eyes did show interest and a sudden flash of surprise. For fifteen years Two-Hand Billy Comstock, United States Deputy Marshal, had been widely known throughout the great South-west, a man who asked no odds and gave no quarter, one whose name sent as chill a shiver through the hard hearts of the lawless as a sight of the gallows would have done. And this man, small, well dressed, quiet mannered, as dapper as a tailor's dummy.... "If you are Billy Comstock," grunted Thornton, "well, I'm damn' glad to know you, sir!" "If I am?" grinned Comstock. "And why should I lie to you?" "I'm not saying that you are lying," returned the cowboy coolly. "But I'm getting in the habit these days of being suspicious, I guess. But if you are that Comstock and want to see me, I'd come mighty close to guessing what you want. But before I do any talking I want to know." "Sure," Comstock nodded. And then, smiling again "Only, Mr. Thornton, I'm not in the habit of carrying around a trunk full of identifications." "You don't need them."