Lambert felt that it was his duty to buy cigars in consideration of the use of the hitching-rack. Wood appeared in the office door as they came up the steps, and put his head beyond the jamb, looking this way and that, like a man considering a sortie with enemies lying in wait. Taterleg went into the parlor to offer the incense of his cigar in the presence of Alta, who was cooing a sentimental ballad to her guitar. It seemed to be of parting, and the hope of reunion, involving one named Irene. There was a run in the chorus accompaniment which Alta had down very neatly. The tinkling guitar, the simple, plaintive melody, sounded to Lambert as refreshing as the plash of a brook in the heat of the day. He stood listening, his elbow on the show case, thinking vaguely that Alta had a good voice for singing babies to sleep. Wood stood in the door again, his stump of arm lifted a little with an alertness about it that made Lambert think of a listening ear. He looked up and down the street in that uneasy, inquiring way that Lambert had remarked on his arrival, then came back and got himself a cigar. He stood across the counter from Lambert a little while, smoking, his brows drawn in trouble, his eyes shifting constantly to the door. "Duke," said he, as if with an effort, "there's a man in town lookin' for you. I thought I'd tell you." "Lookin' for me? Who is he?" "Sim Hargus." "You don't mean Nick?" "No; he's Nick's brother. I don't suppose you ever met him." "I never heard of him." "He's only been back from Wyoming a week or two. He was over there some time--several years, I believe." "In the pen over there?" Wood took a careful survey of the door before replying, working his cigar over to the other side of his mouth in the way that a one-armed man acquires the trick. "I--they say he got mixed up in a cattle deal down there." Lambert smoked in silence a little while, his head bent, his face thoughtful. Wood shifted a little nearer, standing straight and alert behind his counter as if prepared to act in some sudden emergency. "Does he live around here?" Lambert asked. "He's workin' for Berry Kerr, foreman over there. That's the job he used to have before he--left." Lambert grunted, expressing that he understood the situation. He stood in his leaning, careless posture, arm on the show case, thumb hooked in his belt near his gun. "I thought I'd tell you," said Wood uneasily. "Thanks." Wood came a step nearer along the counter, leaned his good arm on it, watching the door without a break. "He's one of the old gang that used to give Philbrook so much trouble--he's carryin' lead that Philbrook shot into him now. So he's got it in for that ranch, and everybody on it. I thought I'd tell you." "I'm much obliged to you, Mr. Wood," said Lambert heartily. "He's one of these kind of men you want to watch out for when your back's turned, Duke." "Thanks, old feller; I'll keep in mind what you say."