He took careful note of the man riding down the center of Sun Dust’s main street, an unsparing shrewdness in his gray eyes. He noted the condition of the horse, which was jaded, and the brand, which he did not know, and then he looked again at the rider. Sheriff Manker’s opinion of him, which he did not express, was summed up in one word: tough. He watched him pick his way, courteously enough, through the nester wagons and the scattering of hands from the ranches up on the Bench who were crossing and recrossing the road on their way to their sundown drink. At last the rider turned into the archway of Settlemeir’s feed stable and was lost to sight. Manker raised a match to his mouth, but before he put it between his thin lips he said, “That him?” The man in the office, the man who had been looking through the window at the same rider, said, “That’s him. What do you think?” Manker didn’t speak. The setting sun threw long shadows on the street, turning its deep dust to silver.
