“He’s your brother.” Allen knew that heavy guttural. It belonged to Francisco Garcia, the Toad.
“You and he are alike. You lose your temper and kill,” the other man replied.
Allen searched his memory. Where had he heard that voice? At the risk of missing something he hurried to the door at the other end and listened. If any one came in through the barn he would be caught like a rat in a trap. Five seconds later he was back again, straining his ears.
“We’ll talk about that when he comes,” the unknown man said. “We have got to start a clean-up pronto. It’s our only chance. We got to get these gents out of the way.” He read a list of names, which Allen carefully noted. When the man had finished, he added: “Jim Allen’s in town!”
“The Wolf!” A chair crashed as the Toad leaped up.
“Skinny saw him and those grays of his over near the lava fields,” the other added. “Skinny’s downstairs waiting.”
“Dios! The man who killed our father!” the heavy voice of the Toad cried.
“There’s two people in town who may know where he holes out—Toothpick and that girl Snippets.”
“Then we have to——”
Like a flash Allen slipped back along the hall. Already his exit was barred! A blurred figure stood at the top of the ladder. He waited, knowing that whoever it was had seen him in the shadows. The figure vanished behind a post.