“Here’s the place,” Gallup called. “Tons of rock came down. I don’t see him, do you? Look around.”
They searched for fifteen minutes—time enough, considering the place—without finding the body. Madeiras was wildly excited over this. “Mebbe those rock cover heem up, eh?” he suggested, white-lipped.
“Naw! Wasn’t he ridin’ on top of them?”
“Sí! But plenty rock come after him. No blood, no not’ing, here. When the moon come up I deeg in these rock.”
“What’s the use? If he’s buried, he’s dead enough. You can stay here if you want to; I’m goin’ back. And I’ll trouble you to return that five hundred. I ain’t payin’ for a dead man unless I see the body.”
“Thass so, señor?” the Basque inquired unpleasantly. He paused, then: “Thees place plenty beeg enough for two daid man.”
He tossed his rifle in back of him, and with hands resting upon his hips, he faced Gallup.
Aaron felt a shiver pass through his body. The size of those hands froze his blood. He fancied he could feel them at his throat—tearing, strangling, forcing the breath from his old carcass.
Gallup’s cunning did not fail him. He knew that the present was the time for quick thinking and smooth talking.
“Why are you so down on me?” he asked, apparently going off at a tangent.