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“Sure I know him,” said he. “But why?”

He squinted his eyes apprehensively at Wild Bill. From his manner, the Laramie man knew that he had opened up a pay streak that it would pay to develop.

“I’m just asking for information, that’s all,” said Wild Bill.

Sim Pierce seemed very much disturbed. After squinting around him apprehensively, he went on in a lowered voice.

“Come out flatfooted, neighbor, an’ tell me whether ye’re inquirin’ as a friend o’ Perry’s er a friend o’ the cattle baron?”

“Cattle barons? Which cattle barons?”

“Principally Benner an’ Phelps, them fellers that throwed the watches.”

“Pard,” rumbled Nomad, with an expression of profound disgust, “don’t fer a minit reckon we’re friends o’ them locoed rawhides, kase we ain’t. Us fellers hes got some self-respect. Ye hurt my dignity a hull lot by askin’ whether we’re friends o’ them fool mavericks.”

“Then, I take it,” pursued Sim Pierce, still with his air of mystery, “thet ye’re friendly ter Perry? The feller needs friends, an’ I reckon I’m the only one he’s got in this town, less’n it is the sky pilot, Jordan, who breezes in here oncet a month on his gospel circuit. But I ain’t talkin’ erbout my friendship fer Perry so’st every one kin hear. Not me. I got too much regyard fer my health.”