Dead Man's Cache - Chapter 3 The Tables Turned

From the local eastbound a man swung to the station platform at Mesa. He
was a dark, slim, little man, wiry and supple, with restless black eyes
which pierced one like bullets.

The depot loungers made him a focus of inquiring looks. But, in spite of
his careless ease, a shrewd observer would have read anxiety in his
bearing. It was as if behind the veil of his indifference there rested a
perpetual vigilance. The wariness of a beast of prey lay close to the
surface.

"Mornin', gentlemen," he drawled, sweeping the group with his eyes.

"Mornin'," responded one of the loafers.

"I presume some of you gentlemen can direct me to the house of Mayor
Lee."

"The mayor ain't to home," volunteered a lank, unshaven native in
butternut jeans and boots.

"I think it was his house I inquired for," suggested the stranger.

"Fust house off the square on the yon side of the postoffice--a big
two-story brick, with a gallery and po'ches all round it."

Having thanked his informant, the stranger passed down the street. The
curious saw him pass in at the mayor's gate and knock at the door. It
opened presently, and disclosed a flash of white, which they knew to be
the skirt of a girl.

"I reckon that's Miss 'Lissie," the others were informed by the unshaven
one. "She's let him in and shet the door."