there were but few Mexicans living there, and these had their
choice between holding hand-and-glove with the outlaws or

furnishing target practice for that wild element.
Toward the close of a day in September a stranger rode into

Ord, and in a community where all men were remarkable for one
reason or another he excited interest. His horse, perhaps,

received the first and most engaging attention--horses in that
region being apparently more important than men. This

particular horse did not attract with beauty. At first glance
he seemed ugly. But he was a giant, black as coal, rough

despite the care manifestly" target="_blank" title="ad.明显的">manifestly bestowed upon him, long of body,
ponderous of limb, huge in every way. A bystander remarked that

he had a grand head. True, if only his head had been seen he
would have been a beautiful horse. Like men, horses show what

they are in the shape, the size, the line, the character of the
head. This one denoted fire, speed, blood, loyalty, and his

eyes were as soft and dark as a woman's. His face was solid
black, except in the middle of his forehead, where there was a

round spot of white.
"Say mister, mind tellin' me his name?" asked a ragged urchin,

with born love of a horse in his eyes.
"Bullet," replied the rider.

"Thet there's fer the white mark, ain't it?" whispered the
youngster to another. "Say, ain't he a whopper? Biggest hoss I

ever seen."
Bullet carried a huge black silver-ornamented saddle of Mexican

make, a lariat and canteen, and a small pack rolled into a
tarpaulin.

This rider apparently put all care of appearances upon his
horse. His apparel was the ordinary jeans of the cowboy without

vanity, and it was torn and travel-stained. His boots showed
evidence of an intimateacquaintance with cactus. Like his

horse, this man was a giant in stature, but rangier, not so
heavily built. Otherwise the only striking thing about him was

his somber face with its piercing eyes, and hair white over the
temples. He packed two guns, both low down--but that was too

common a thing to attract notice in the Big Bend. A close
observer, however, would have noted a singular fact--this

rider's right hand was more bronzed, more weather-beaten than
his left. He never wore a glove on that right hand!

He had dismounted before a ramshackle structure that bore upon
its wide, high-boarded front the sign, "Hotel." There were

horsemen coming and going down the wide street between its rows
of old stores, saloons, and houses. Ord certainly did not look

enterprising. Americans had manifestly" target="_blank" title="ad.明显的">manifestly assimilated much of the
leisure of the Mexicans. The hotel had a wide platform in

front, and this did duty as porch and sidewalk. Upon it, and
leaning against a hitching-rail, were men of varying ages, most

of them slovenly in old jeans and slouched sombreros. Some were
booted, belted, and spurred. No man there wore a coat, but all

wore vests. The guns in that group would have outnumbered the
men.

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."
This sally fetched another laugh. The stranger appeared cool,

careless, indifferent. Perhaps he knew, as the others present
knew, that this show of Fletcher's, this pretense of

introduction, was merely talk while he was looked over.
Knell stepped up, and it was easy to see, from the way Fletcher

relinquished his part in the situation, that a man greater than
he had appeared upon the scene.

"Any business here?" he queried, curtly. When he spoke his
expressionless face was in strange contrast with the ring, the

quality, the cruelty of his voice. This voice betrayed an
absence of humor, of friendliness, of heart.

"Nope," replied the stranger.
"Know anybody hereabouts?"

"Nary one."
"Jest ridin' through?"

"Yep."
"Slopin' fer back country, eh?"