Riders of the Silences. Max Brand

they stared across at the dull sorrow of the old man. There was an ominous sound from Pierre:

      "Do you let a thing like that happen in this country?" he asked fiercely.

      The other turned to him with a sneer.

      "Let it happen? Who'll stop him? Say, partner, you ain't meanin' to say that you don't know who Hurley is?"

      "I don't need telling. I can see."

      "What you can't see means a lot more than what you can. I've been in the same room when Hurley worked his gun once. It wasn't any killin', but it was the prettiest bit of cheatin' I ever seen. But even if Hurley wasn't enough, what about Carl Diaz?"

      He glared his triumph at Pierre, but the latter was too puzzled to quail, and too stirred by the pale, gloomy face of Cochrane to turn toward the other.

      "What of Diaz?"

      "Look here, boy. You're a kid, all right, but you ain't that young. D'you mean to say that you ain't heard of Carlos Diaz?"

      It came back to Pierre then, for even into the snow-bound seclusion of the north country the shadow of the name of Diaz had gone. He could not remember just what they were, but he seemed to recollect grim tales through which that name figured.

      The other went on: "But if you ain't ever seen him before, look him over now. They's some says he's faster on the draw than Bob McGurk, but, of course, that's stretchin' him out a size too much. What's the matter, kid; you've met McGurk?"

      "No, but I'm going to."

      "Might even be carried to him, eh—feet first?"

      Pierre turned and laid a hand on the shoulder of the other.

      "Don't talk like that," he said gently. "I don't like it."

      The other reached up to snatch the hand from his shoulder, but he stayed his arm.

      He said after an uncomfortable moment of that silent staring: "Well, partner, there ain't a hell of a lot to get sore over, is there? You don't figure you're a mate for McGurk, do you?"

      He seemed oddly relieved when the eyes of Pierre moved away from him and returned to the figure of Carlos Diaz. The Mexican was a perfect model for a painting of a melodramatic villain. He had waxed and twirled the end of his black mustache so that it thrust out a little spur on either side of his long face. His habitual expression was a scowl; his habitual position was with a cigarette in the fingers of his left hand, and his right hand resting on his hip.

      He sat in a chair directly behind that of Hurley, and Pierre's new-found acquaintance explained:

      "He's the bodyguard for Hurley. Maybe there's some who could down Hurley in a straight gun fight; maybe there's one or two like McGurk that could down Diaz—damn his yellow hide—but there ain't no one can buck the two of 'em. It ain't in reason. So they play the game together. Hurley works the cards and Diaz covers up the retreat. Can't beat that, can you?"