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The man thrust his way in through the doorway bearing two lashed bundles, one under each arm. They were large and obviously of considerable weight, and his movements were swift almost to hastiness.

It was to the banker’s thinking an unintentional outward sign of his relief at the safe completion of his journey and the final depositing of his treasure.

“Howdo, Mr. Liskard,” he greeted the man, as he laid his bundles on the edge of the counter. “Make a good trip in?” Then he smiled on the two bundles. “You look to be good an’ busy on your patch.” He turned to the teller, who was looking on interestedly. “The scales, Rickards.”

“’Tain’t bad on the trail this time o’ year,” Cy admitted, with more than usual readiness, as he cut the lashings of his burden with a vicious-looking sheath-knife.

The banker watching him noted the details of his powerful body under the thick pea-jacket that was closely buttoned over it. He watched the rough hands, with thumbs stumped short in their top joints, and with the flattest, shortest, ugliest nails he had ever seen, as he ripped the bonds asunder. Then his gaze lifted again to the hard face, with its dirty stubble of beard and whisker, clearly unshaven on his journey, and his shrewd mind was swiftly estimating. He reckoned, by the growth of whisker, the man must have been on the trail at least three weeks, if he had started clean-shaven.