Both were gunmen—killers. They were twins, “Sandy” and “Mac” McGill. There was Indian mixed with their Scotch blood. From the first they had inherited their killing propensity, from the second a cool, deadly nerve.
Mac had a scar on his left cheek, and it was only from this mark that one of the twins could be distinguished from the other. Both were of medium height, rather slender and wiry of build. Their eyes were like blue marbles, their hair sandy in color. Their faces were rather long, and their jaws heavy, which contrasted strangely with their thin and cruel mouths.
Covertly, from beneath the brim of his hat, Allen watched them while pretending to listen to a long-winded story by Shorty. If they recognized him, it would be the end, for no matter whether he won the gun fight or not, it would mean his quitting the ranch. Perhaps he could keep out of their way for a few days, but sooner or later, he would come face to face with them. As long as the crisis had to come, it might as well come that night. He would play his part—and the ragged boy from Fort Worth should not be found packing a gun in a shoulder holster. That was a risk he would have to take, for if he took off his gun and they recognized him, they would shoot him down like a dog.
A little later, he slipped out of the bunk house, unfastened his shoulder holster and gun, hid them beneath the bunk house, and then returned to the long room.
“Yuh was tellin’ me about this here Hard Pan country,” he said to Shorty, when he returned.
“Yeh, I was tellin’ yuh to stay clear of it ’cause it ain’t nothin’ but a lot of buttes with hard pan between them. Yuh can get lost there easy. Yuh could drive a hundred cows over this here hard pan and never leave no trail a-tall ’cause it’s just like stone. An’ there’s a thousan’ trails windin’ about in there. Some of ’em is blind ones an’ they twist about scandalously. Then, besides, ‘Boston Jack’ don’t like folks wanderin’ about the buttes.”
From the corner of his eye, Allen saw that both the McGills were watching him and whispering to each other. He saw them slowly arise to their feet and move toward him. Mac came directly toward him and Sandy circled the table to take him in the rear. It was coming.
“Who’s this here Boston Jack?” he asked, and there was no quiver in his voice—nothing to show that he knew he might be dead in sixty seconds. His voice was eager, curious.
“He’s the gent what bought the ol’ Double B Ranch after the bank foreclosed. It’s about twenty mile from here, tother side of the Hard Pan. He’s runnin’ hosses, but folks figger he’s runnin’ cows on the side—other folks’ cows—but they never can catch him.” The garrulous Shorty paused to yank off a chew from a piece of black plug.
“Stay put!” Mac snapped.