A big man walked down the street and stopped in front of the high porch of the store.  His long, black moustache, black eyebrows, and curly black hair contrasted queerly with his light, pink complexion, which belonged, by rights, to a blonde.  He was about forty, and wore a white vest, a white hat, a watch chain made of five-dollar gold pieces linked together, and a rather well-fitting two-piece gray suit of the cut that college boys of eighteen are wont to affect.  He glanced at me distrustfully, and then at Bell with coldness and, I thought, something of enmity in his expression.

“Well,” asked Bell, as if he were addressing a stranger, “did you fix up that matter?”

“Did I!” the man answered, in a resentful tone.  “What do you suppose I’ve been here two weeks for?  The business is to be settled to-night.  Does that suit you, or have you got something to kick about?”

“It’s all right,” said Bell.  “I knew you’d do it.”

“Of course, you did,” said the magnificent stranger.  “Haven’t I done it before?”

“You have,” admitted Bell.  “And so have I. How do you find it at the hotel?”

“Rocky grub.  But I ain’t kicking.  Say—­can you give me any pointers about managing that—­affair?  It’s my first deal in that line of business, you know.”

“No, I can’t,” answered Bell, after some thought.  “I’ve tried all kinds of ways.  You’ll have to try some of your own.”

“Tried soft soap?”

“Barrels of it.”

“Tried a saddle girth with a buckle on the end of it?”

“Never none.  Started to once; and here’s what I got.”

Bill held out his right hand.  Even in the deepening twilight, I could see on the back of it a long, white scar that might have been made by a claw or a knife or some sharp-edged tool.

“Oh, well,” said the florid man, carelessly, “I’ll know what to do later on.”

He walked away without another word.  When he had gone ten steps he turned and called to Bell: 

“You keep well out of the way when the goods are delivered, so there won’t be any hitch in the business.”

“All right,” answered Bell, “I’ll attend to my end of the line.”

This talk was scarcely clear in its meaning to me; but as it did not concern me, I did not let it weigh upon my mind.  But the singularity of the other man’s appearance lingered with me for a while; and as we walked toward Bell’s house I remarked to him: 

“Your customer seems to be a surly kind of fellow—­not one that you’d like to be snowed in with in a camp on a hunting trip.”

“He is that,” assented Bell, heartily.  “He reminds me of a rattlesnake that’s been poisoned by the bite of a tarantula.”

“He doesn’t look like a citizen of Saltillo,” I went on.

“No,” said Bell, “he lives in Sacramento.  He’s down here on a little business trip.  His name is George Ringo, and he’s been my best friend—­in fact the only friend I ever had—­for twenty years.”