"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Blair," said Sidwell.
"Thank you," responded Ben, evenly.
Down in the depths of his consciousness, Scotty was glad this frontier youth had seen fit to come to town. Taking off his big glasses he polished them industriously.
"Won't you sit down?" he invited the new-comer.
Sidwell moved toward the door. "No, thank you. With your permission I'll go inside. I presume Miss Baker--"
But the Englishman was ahead of him. "Yes," he said, "she's at home. I'll call her," and he disappeared.
Watching the retreating figure, Sidwell's black eyes tightened, but he returned and took the place Scotty had vacated. He gave his companion a glance which, swift as a flash of light upon a sensitized plate, took in every detail of the figure, the bizarre dress, the striking face.
"You are from the West, I judge, Mr. Blair?" he interrogated.
"Dakota," said Ben, laconically.
Sidwell's gaze centred on the sombrero. "Cattle raising, perhaps?" he ventured.
Ben nodded. "Yes, I have a few head east of the river." He returned the other's look, and Sidwell had the impression that a searchlight was suddenly shifted upon him. "Ever been out there?"
The city man indicated an affirmative. "Yes, twice: the last time about four years ago. I went out on purpose to see a steer-roping contest, on the ranch of a man by the name of Gilbert, I remember. A cowboy they called Pete carried off the honors; had his 'critter' down and tied in forty-two seconds. They told me that was slow time, but I thought it lightning itself."
"The trick can be done in thirty-five with the wildest," commented Ben.
Sidwell looked out on the narrow street meditatively. "I think that cowboy exhibition," he went on slowly, "was the most typically American scene I have ever witnessed. The recklessness, the dash, the splendid animal activity--there's never been anything like it in the world." His eyes returned to Ben's face. "Ever hear of Gilbert, did you?"
"I live within twenty-three miles of him."
Sidwell looked interested. "What ranch, if I may ask?"
"The Right Angle Triangle we call it."
"Oh, yes," Sidwell nodded in recollection. "Rankin is the proprietor--a big man with a grandfather's-shay buckboard. I saw him while I was there."
Involuntarily one of Ben's long legs swung over the other. "That's the place! You have a good memory."
Sidwell smiled. "I couldn't help having in this case. He reminded me of the satraps of ancient Persia. He was monarch of all he surveyed."
Ben said nothing.
"He's still the big man of the country, I presume?"
"He is dead."
"Dead?"
"I said so."