It was an old-fashioned living room into which we entered, the floor
unswept, the chairs faded and patched. Curtains were drawn closely at
the windows, while the single oil lamp stood on a center table littered
with old newspapers. I dropped the grips on the carpet, not so much
interested in my surroundings as in the appearance of the man in
charge. The shading of the light gave me only a partial view of the
fellow, but he was big, loose-jointed, having enormous shoulders, his
face so hidden by a heavy mustache, and low drawn hat brim, I could
scarcely perceive its outline. He appeared a typical rough, wearing
high boots, with an ugly-looking Colt in a belt holster.

"Where are you from?" I asked, surprised at this display of firearms.

"Texas," with a grin, not altogether pleasant. "That's an ol' friend."

"No doubt, but I see no sense in wearing it here. What are you afraid
of?"

He stroked his mustache, eyeing me.

"Wal, personally, stranger, I ain't greatly feerd o' nuthin', but I wus
hired fer to keep people outer this shebang. There ain't no work goin'
on, so I don't hav' no niggers to keep folks out."

"Who employed you?"

"That don't make no difference. Those wus my orders--not to talk, nor
let enybody hang 'round except you folks."

"Then we were expected?" in surprise.