At the rear was the lunch counter where two
Chinamen were serving soup and stew and coffee to half a dozen men.
Thornton, with one of his quick, sharp glances which missed nothing in
the room, went to the bar.
"Hello, Blackie," he said quietly.
The bartender, who in a leisure moment had been bending in deep
absorption over an illustrated pink sheet spread on the bar, looked up
quickly. For a short second a little gleam as of surprise shone in his
shoe-button eyes. Then he put out his hand, shoving the pink sheet
aside.
"Hello, Buck," he cried genially. "Where'd you blow in from?"
"Poison Hole," briefly. He spun a silver dollar on the bar and ignored
the hand.
Blackie reached for bottle and glass, and putting them before the cowboy
bestowed upon him a shrewd, searching look.
"What's the news out your way, Buck?"
"Nothing." He tossed off his whiskey, took up his change and went on to
the lunch counter. Several men looked up at him; one or two nodded. It
was evident that the new owner of the Poison Hole was something of a
stranger here. He called an order to the Chinaman at the stove, told him
that he'd be back in ten minutes and was in a hurry and went out to his
horse. The bartender watched him go but said nothing.
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