Thornton’s look showed nothing beyond a faint curiosity; one would have said that he was as little interested in this man’s stamping ground as in his name.

“One more try,” laughed Comstock easily, “and I’ll give up.  Two-Hand Billy Comstock....  Aha, I get you now!”

For now Buck Thornton started and his eyes did show interest and a sudden flash of surprise.  For fifteen years Two-Hand Billy Comstock, United States Deputy Marshal, had been widely known throughout the great South-west, a man who asked no odds and gave no quarter, one whose name sent as chill a shiver through the hard hearts of the lawless as a sight of the gallows would have done.  And this man, small, well dressed, quiet mannered, as dapper as a tailor’s dummy....

“If you are Billy Comstock,” grunted Thornton, “well, I’m damn’ glad to know you, sir!”

“If I am?” grinned Comstock.  “And why should I lie to you?”

“I’m not saying that you are lying,” returned the cowboy coolly.  “But I’m getting in the habit these days of being suspicious, I guess.  But if you are that Comstock and want to see me, I’d come mighty close to guessing what you want.  But before I do any talking I want to know.”

“Sure,” Comstock nodded.  And then, smiling again “Only, Mr. Thornton, I’m not in the habit of carrying around a trunk full of identifications.”

“You don’t need them.”

Billy Comstock’s name he had made himself, and it had carried far.  There were few men in half a dozen States in this corner of the country who did not know why he was called “Two-Hand Billy” and how he had earned his right to the nickname.  His fame was that of a man who was absolutely fearless, and who carried the law where other men could not or would not carry it.  To him had come the dangers, the sharp fights against odds that had seemed overwhelming, and always he had shot his way out with a gun in each hand, and no waste lead.

“I never saw the man who could beat me to my gun,” went on Thornton quietly, no boastfulness in his tone, merely the plain statement of a fact.  “If you are ‘Two-Hand Billy Comstock’ you ought to do it.”

The two men were sitting loosely in their chairs at opposite sides of the room, the table with the lamp between them.  Comstock’s hands were again clasped behind his head.  Thornton lifted his arms, clasping his own hands behind his head.

Comstock smiled suddenly, brightly, seeming to understand and to be as pleased as a child with anew game.

“I’ll count three,” said Thornton.  “We’ll both go for our guns.  If I get the drop on you first,” with a smile which reflected the other’s, “I’ve a notion to shoot you up for an impostor!”

“If you get the drop on me first,” grinned Comstock, “and don’t shoot me up, I’ll make you a present of the best gun you ever saw.”

Thornton counted slowly, with regular intervals between the words.  “One,” and neither man moved, both sitting in seeming carelessness, their hands behind their heads.  “Two,” and only their eyes showed that every lax muscle in each body grew taut.  “Three,” and then they moved, the two men like two pieces of the same machine driven unerringly by the same motive power.