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The little street had been empty when Poe arrived. Now he noted men strolling toward him with a casual air from all directions. He was soon surrounded by a dozen citizens, all wearing six-shooters, all viewing him with cold-eyed suspicion.

"Stranger in these parts?"

"Where you from?"

"Where you bound?"

They were violating the frontiers code of courtesy in which questions to a stranger had no part. Being a frontiersman, Poe knew it. Also he knew why. But he answered their queries with easy politeness as he had answered Beaver Smith's.

"Come on in and let's have a drink," he suggested.

After the whisky the situation eased a trifle. Poe discussed crops. He had a word to say about cattle. He dropped a few wise reflections on politics.

"Pat Garrett," he remarked at last, slipping in the parenthesis rather adroitly, "was in White Oaks the day I left, looking for the Kid. They say the Kid's been seen there since his escape."

Sudden profound silence greeted his observation. His auditors looked at him sullenly and shot furtive glances at one another. Poe went back to crops, cattle, and politics for an hour or so. Then he tried again.

"Billy the Kid must be a fine fellow," he said, taking a new tack. "I don't know anything about him, being a stranger in New Mexico. But I've been interested in the stories I've heard. They say he has a sweetheart in Fort Sumner and paid her a flying visit after he broke jail. Eh?"

Another profound silence shot through with suspicion. It was plain Poe could learn nothing. These were all