"Meaning that there are road agents and such?" questioned Duncan.
"Naturally, that particular kind would be included. I meant, however another kind—I believe they are called ‘bad men,’ are they not? Men who kill for hire?”
Duncan cast a furtive glance at Langford out of the corners of his eyes, but could draw no conclusions concerning the latter’s motive in asking the question from the expression of his face.
“Such men drift in occasionally,” he returned, convinced that Langford’s curiosity was merely casual—as Langford desired him to consider it. “Usually, though, they don’t stay long.”
“I suppose there are none of that breed around here—in Lazette, for instance. It struck me that Dakota was extraordinarily handy with a gun.”
He puffed long at his cigar and saw that, though Duncan did not answer, his face had grown suddenly dark with passion, as it always did when Dakota’s name was mentioned. Langford smiled subtly. “I suppose,” he said, “that Dakota might be called a bad man.”
Duncan’s eyes flashed with venom. “I reckon Dakota’s nothing but a damned sneak!” he said, not being able to conceal the bitterness in his voice.
Langford did not allow his smile to be seen; he had not forgotten the incident of the returning of Dakota’s horse by Duncan.
“He’s a dead shot, though,” he suggested.
“I’m allowing that,” grudgingly returned Duncan. “And,” he added, “it’s been hinted that all his shooting scrapes haven’t been on the level.”