Because he loved a good horse, and this rangy sorrel above others, and because further he had been forced to ride the willing animal unusually hard all day yesterday, Thornton today had travelled slowly.  So, long ago, he had watched the stage out of sight and now, when finally he drew up in front of the bank, he saw Hap Smith’s lumbering vehicle standing down by the stable.  From it he let his eyes travel along the double row of ill kept, unpainted houses.  Fifty yards away a stranger would have marked only his great height, the lean, clean, powerful physique.  But from near by one might have forgotten this matter of physical bigness for another, noting just the man’s eyes alone.  Very keen, piercing, quick eyes just now, watchful and suspicious of every corner and alley, they more than hinted at a stern vigilance that was more than half positive expectancy.

Only for a moment he sat so.  Then he swung down from the saddle and with spurs clanking noisily upon the board sidewalk went into the bank building.

“I want to see Mr. Templeton,” he said abruptly to the clerkly looking individual behind the new lattice work.  The words were very quietly spoken, the voice rather soft and gentle for so big a man.  And yet the cashier turned quickly, looking at him curiously.

“Who shall I say it is?” he demanded.

“This man’s town is getting citified mighty fast,” the tall man grunted.  “I should have brought my cards!  Well, just tell him it’s Thornton.”

“Thornton?”

“You got it.  Buck Thornton, from the Poison Hole ranch.”

He spoke lightly, his voice hinting at a vast store of good nature, his eyes, however, losing meanwhile no glint of their stern light as they looked at the man to whom he was talking and beyond him watched the door through which he had entered.  The cashier regarded him with new interest.

“You are early, Mr. Thornton,” he said, rather more warmly than he had spoken before.  “But Mr. Templeton will be glad to see you.  He is in his private office.  Walk right in.”

Thornton stooped, his back to the wall, and swiftly unbuckled his spurs.  Carrying them in his left hand he passed along the lattice work partition which shut off the cashier with his books and till, and threw open the door at the end of the short hallway.  Here was a sort of waiting room, to judge from the two or three chairs, the square topped table strewn with financial journals and illustrated magazines indiscriminately mixed.  He closed the door behind him, standing again for a moment as he had stood out in the street, his eyes keen and watchful as they took swift inventory of the room and its furnishings.

Before him was a second door upon the frosted glass top of which were the stencilled words:  J.W.  Templeton, President, Private.  He took a step toward the door and then stopped suddenly as though the very vehemence of the voice bursting out upon the other side of it had halted him.