It was a crowd seemingly too lazy to be curious. Good nature did not appear to be wanting, but it was not the frank and boisterous kind natural to the cowboy or rancher in town for a day. These men were idlers; what else, perhaps, was easy to conjecture. Certainly to this arriving stranger, who flashed a keen eye over them, they wore an atmosphere never associated with work. Presently a tall man, with a drooping, sandy mustache, leisurely detached himself from the crowd. “Howdy, stranger,” he said. The stranger had bent over to loosen the cinches; he straightened up and nodded. Then: “I'm thirsty!” That brought a broad smile to faces. It was characteristic greeting. One and all trooped after the stranger into the hotel. It was a dark, ill-smelling barn of a place, with a bar as high as a short man's head. A bartender with a scarred face was serving drinks. “Line up, gents,” said the stranger. They piled over one another to get to the bar, with coarse jests and oaths and laughter. None of them noted that the stranger did not appear so thirsty as he had claimed to be. In fact, though he went through the motions, he did not drink at all. “My name's Jim Fletcher,” said the tall man with the drooping, sandy mustache. He spoke laconically, nevertheless there was a tone that showed he expected to be known. Something went with that name. The stranger did not appear to be impressed. “My name might be Blazes, but it ain't,” he replied. “What do you call this burg?” “Stranger, this heah me-tropoles bears the handle Ord. Is thet new to you?” He leaned back against the bar, and now his little yellow eyes, clear as crystal, flawless as a hawk's, fixed on the stranger. Other men crowded close, forming a circle, curious, ready to be friendly or otherwise, according to how the tall interrogator marked the new-comer. “Sure, Ord's a little strange to me. Off the railroad some, ain't it? Funny trails hereabouts.” “How fur was you goin'?” “I reckon I was goin' as far as I could,” replied the stranger, with a hard laugh. 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.”