Silent turned the gun over in his hand. Teddy and Roy saw it and started forward. They did not speak, however, but waited for Silent.
The puncher’s eyes were on the gun as though he had never seen one like it before. In truth, it was not a Western weapon. It was unlike anything cowboys carry.
Finally Silent raised his eyes and there was a strange light in them. When he spoke his voice was low, almost a whisper.
“I reckon,” he said slowly, “this here farce ends now. Allen—” this word was snapped out, “this your gun?”
Allen, his face white, did not answer. He seemed fascinated by the look in Silent’s eyes.
“You don’t have to tell me—I know.” Silent took a step forward. “Allen, you ever heard the name—Greyhound?”
“Greyhound!”
The word burst from Allen’s lips. He staggered back, his hand to his head.
“Watch him, boys!” Silent roared. “Watch him!”
Allen gave one leap and gained his saddle. Frantically he dug spurs into his pony’s sides and the maddened beast sprang high.