"Billy, here's a gent that cracked it the first whack and started his gun from the leather, by God.
He--" "Jest kindly close the door, Harry," said Billy.

"Step in, partner.
Gimme your name ?" The door closed on the discomfited Harry, and "Joe Cumber" stood close to it, apparently driven to shrinking into the wall in his embarrassment, but while he stood there his hand fumbled behind him and turned the key in the lock, and then extracted it.
"My name's Joe Cumber." "Joe Cumber,"-- this while inscribing it.
"Age ?" "About thirty-two, maybe." "Don't you know ?" "I don't exactly." His eyes were as vague as his words, gentle, and smiling.
"Thirty-two ?" said Billy sharply.

"You look more like twenty-five to me.
S'pose we split the difference, eh ?" And with a grin he wrote: "Age twenty-two or three." "Business ?" "Trapper." "Good! The sheriff is pretty keen for 'em.

You gents in that game got a sort of nose for the trail, mostly.

All right, Cumber, you'll see Glass." He stood at the door.
"By the way, Cumber, is that straight about startin' your shot with your gun in the holster ?" "I s'pose it is." "You s'pose ?" grunted the clerk.