Afterward it was recalled by observing citizens that just before noon—­seven minutes to twelve, in fact—­a small cloud no bigger than the proverbial hand crossed the sun hurriedly as if afraid to tarry.  At that very instant a stranger drove up to the hitching-rack, bringing his sweat-covered horse to a standstill so abruptly in front of the marshal’s nose that that dignitary’s hat fell off backward.

“Whoa!” came clearly and unmistakably from the lips of the stranger who held the reins.  Half a dozen loafers on the post-office steps were positive that he said nothing more, a fact that was afterward worth remembering.

“Here!” exclaimed Anderson Crow wrathfully.  “Do you know what you’re doin’, consarn you?”

“I beg pardon,” everybody within hearing heard the young man say.  “Is this the city of Tinkletown?” He said “city,” they could swear, every man’s son of them.

“Yes, it is,” answered the marshal severely.  “What of it?”

“That’s all.  I just wanted to know.  Where’s the store?”

“Which store?” quite crossly.  The stranger seemed nonplussed at this.

“Have you more than—­oh, to be sure.  I should say, where is the nearest store?” apologised the stranger.

“Well, this is a good one, I reckon,” said Mr. Crow laconically, indicating the post-office and general store.

“Will you be good enough to hold my horse while I run in there for a minute?” calmly asked the new arrival in town, springing lightly from the mud-spattered buggy.  Anderson Crow almost staggered beneath this indignity.  The crowd gasped, and then waited breathlessly for the withering process.

“Why—­why, dod-gast you, sir, what do you think I am—­a hitchin’-post?” exploded on the lips of the new detective.  His face was flaming red.

“You’ll have to excuse me, my good man, but I thought I saw a hitching-rack as I drove up.  Ah, here it is.  How careless of me.  But say, I won’t be in the store more than a second, and it doesn’t seem worth while to tie the old crow-bait.  If you’ll just watch him—­or her—­for a minute I’ll be greatly obliged, and—­”

“Watch your own horse,” roared the marshal thunderously.

“Don’t get huffy,” cried the young man cheerily.  “It will be worth a quarter to you.”

“Do you know who I am?” demanded Anderson Crow, purple to the roots of his goatee.

“Yes, sir; I know perfectly well, but I refuse to give it away.  Here, take the bit, old chap, and hold Dobbin for about a minute and half,” went on the stranger ruthlessly; and before Anderson Crow knew what had happened he was actually holding the panting nag by the bit.  The young man went up the steps three at a time, almost upsetting Uncle Gideon Luce, who had not been so spry as the others in clearing the way for him.  The crowd had ample time in which to study the face, apparel and manner of this energetic young man.