The latter's hand strayed uncertainly toward his own weapon, but the movement paused when the stranger's clear, steel eye rested on it.
"This gentleman," pointed out the two-gun man softly, "is an old friend of mine.

Don't you get to calling of him names." His eye swept the bystanders calmly.
"Come on, Jack," said he, addressing Parker.
On the outskirts he encountered the Mexican from whom he had borrowed the knife.
"Here, Tony," said he with a slight laugh, "here's a peso.

You'll find your knife back there where I had to drop her." He entered a saloon, nodded to the proprietor, and led the way through it to a boxlike room containing a board table and two chairs.
"Make good," he commanded briefly.
"I'm looking for a man with nerve," explained Parker, with equal succinctness.

"You're the man." "Well ?" "Do you know the country south of here ?" The stranger's eyes narrowed.
"Proceed," said he.
"I'm foreman of the Lazy Y of Soda Springs Valley range," explained Parker.

"I'm looking for a man with sand enough and sabe of the country enough to lead a posse after cattle-rustlers into the border country." "I live in this country," admitted the stranger.
"So do plenty of others, but their eyes stick out like two raw oysters when you mention the border country.