"Hello, Banks," said Steele, putting out his hand and ignoring Embry after the one searching look. "What's the word?"
Banks put out his hand, a shade of uncertainty passing swiftly across his face, his eyes running with quick, stabbing fashion between Steele and Embry.
"So—so, Billy," he returned the greeting. "Staying in town long or just catching a train?"
Now that puzzled Steele. He had known Jim Banks casually for half a score of years and had numbered him, after his carelessly good humoured fashion, as a friend. Now the man seemed not only not particularly friendly but positively ill at ease. Then Steele caught the winking of the sunlight on the metal star on Banks's woollen shirt, peeping out from under his vest.
"Constable now, Jim?" he asked. "Deputy sheriff, or what?"
Banks drew back the flap of his vest. Steele whistled.
"Sheriff!" he said. "Good business, Jim. Well, see you later."
And he went into the station, conscious the while that both Embry and Banks were regarding him intently.
"Now what the devil's up?" he wondered. "What's Embry chinning with a sheriff for? He ought to know better by this time. And if they weren't talking about me I'll eat a man's hat! If I ever eat anything again!" as the emptiness of his stomach recalled itself to him.
The station agent, busy with his telegraphic key, turned, fixed him with a vacant eye and went on click-
