“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
gunfight; 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?”
Pierre le Rouge slipped his left hand once more inside
his shirt until the fingers touched the cross.
“Nevertheless, that game has to stop.”
“Who’ll—say, kid, are you stringin’
me, or are you drunk? Look me in the eye!”
Pierre turned and looked calmly upon the other.
And the man whispered in a sort of awe: “Well,
I’ll be damned!”
“Stand aside!”
The other fell back a pace, and Pierre went straight
to the table and said to Cochrane: “Sir,
I have come to take you home.”
The old man looked up and rubbed his eyes as though
waking from a sleep.
“Stand back from the table!” warned Hurley.
“By the Lord, have they been missing me?”
queried old Cochrane. “You are waited for,”
answered Pierre le Rouge, “and I’ve been
sent to take you home.”
“If that’s the case—”
“It ain’t the case. The kid’s
lying.”
“Lying?” repeated Cochrane, as if he had
never heard the word before, and he peered with clearing
eyes toward Pierre. “No, I think this boy
has never lied.”
Silence had spread through the place like a vapor.
Even the slight sounds in the gaming-room were done
now, and one pair after another of eyes swung toward
the table of Cochrane and Hurley. The wave of
the silence reached to the barroom. No one could
have carried the tidings so soon, but the air was
surcharged with the consciousness of an impending
crisis.
