being friendly out of his place.
"Ugly lookin' cuss, mean a mug as I ever seen on a man," the wrangler said.
Barrett supposed he referred to the husk of a man that he had hauled up the canyon. The wrangler had stated the fact very neatly; Barrett did not see where it called for comment or supporting testimony. He held his peace. There was a scuffing of bootheels as the wrangler adjusted himself more comfortably. Barrett could see that he was arranging himself upon his crossed legs.
"You took him square between the eyes," he said, not discouraged in the least by the other's silence. "Purty good shootin' for a man that's down with a horse on top of him, I'm here to tell you, kid! Come fur?"
"Saunders," Barrett replied.
"Sheriff's office?"
"No."
The wrangler smoked his cigarette out in a long inhalation, crumbled the stub between his hard fingers, showering down a little rain of sparks.
"Thought maybe you was," said he.
Barrett did not feel that the conversational wedge had opened a very great chink of communication between them yet. He waited for the wrangler to make the move.
"Friend of the old man's?"
"No."
"Thought maybe you was."
Silence again. The wrangler was rustling another paper; Barrett struck a match, offering the light with-
