“Never heard of him?”
“Nope.”
“Well,” sighed the waitress, “you’ve
had some luck in your life. Take a cross between
a bulldog and a mustang and a mountain-lion—that’s
Mac Strann. He’s in town, and he’s
here for killin’.”
“You don’t say, ma’am. And
why don’t they lock him up?”
“Because he ain’t done nothin’ yet
to be locked up about. That’s the way with
him. And when he does a thing he always makes
the man he’s after pull his gun first.
Smart? I’ll say he’s just like an
Indian, that Mac Strann!”
“But who’s he after?”
“The feller that plugged his brother, Jerry.”
“Kind of looks like he had reason for a killing,
then.”
“Nope. Jerry had it comin’ to him.
He was always raising trouble, Jerry was. And
this time, he pulled his gun first. Everybody
seen him.”
“He run into a gunman?”
“Gunman?” she laughed heartily. “Partner,
if it wasn’t for something funny about his eyes,
I wouldn’t be no more afraid of that gunman than
I am of a tabby-cat. And me a weak woman.
The quietest lookin’ sort that ever come to
Brownsville. But there’s something queer
about him. He knows that Mac Strann is here in
town. He knows that Mac Strann is waiting for
Jerry to die. He knows that when Jerry dies Mac
will be out for a killin’. And this here
stranger is just sittin’ around and waitin’
to be killed! Can you beat that?”
But Buck Daniels had grown strangely excited.
“What did you say there was about his eyes?”
he asked sharply.
She grew suddenly suspicious.
“D’ you know him?”
“No. But you was talkin’ about his
eyes?”
“I dunno what it is. I ain’t the
only one that’s seen it. There ain’t
no word you can put to it. It’s just there.
That’s all.”
The voice of Buck Daniels fell to a whisper.
“It’s sort of fire,” he suggested.
“Ain’t it a kind of light behind
his eyes?”
But the waitress stared at him in amazement.
“Fire?” she gasped. “A light
behind his eyes? M’frien’,
are you tryin’ to string me?”
“What’s his name?”
“I dunno.”
“Ma’am,” said Daniels, rising hastily.
“Here’s a dollar if you’ll take
me to him.”
“You don’t need no guide,” she replied.
“Listen to that, will you?”
And as he hearkened obediently Buck Daniels heard
a strain of whistling, needle-sharp with distance.
“That’s him,” nodded the woman.
“He’s always goin’ about whistling
to himself. Kind of a nut, he is.”
“It’s him!” cried Buck Daniels.
“It’s him!”
And with this ungrammatical burst of joy he bolted
from the room.
THE THREE
The whistling came from behind the hotel, and although
it ended as soon as he reached the veranda of the
building, Buck Daniels hurried to the rear of the
place. There were the long, low sheds of the barn,
and behind these, he knew, must be the corrals.
He raced around the corner of the shed and there came
to a halt, for he saw a thing that turned his blood
to ice.
