Harboro wheeled with an almost despairing expression in his eyes. He seemed to look at nothing, now—like a bird-dog that senses the nearness of the invisible quarry. The thought came to him: “Fectnor may appear at any point, behind me!” The man might have run back along the line of buildings, seeking his own place to emerge again.
But Dunwoodie went on reassuringly. He had guessed the thought in Harboro’s mind. “No, he’s quite gone. I watched him go. He’s probably in Mexico by this time—or well on his way, at least.”
Harboro drew a deep breath. “You watched him go?”
“When he came into the saloon, like a rock out of a sling, he stopped just long enough to grin, and fling out this—to me—‘If you want to see a funny sight, go out front.’ Fectnor never did like me, anyway. Then he scuttled back and out. I followed to see what was the matter. He made straight for the bridge road. He was sprinting. He’s gone.”
Harboro’s gun had disappeared. He was frowning; and then he realized that Dunwoodie was looking at him with a quizzical expression.
He made no explanation, however.
“I must be getting along home,” he said shortly. He was thinking of Sylvia.
CHAPTER XVI
Dunwoodie was not given to talkativeness; moreover, he was a considerate man, and he respected Harboro. Therefore it may be doubted if he ever said anything about that unexplained drama which occurred on the main street of Eagle Pass on a Sunday morning, before the town was astir. But there was the bartender at the Maverick—and besides, it would scarcely have been possible for any man to do what Harboro had done without being seen by numbers of persons looking out upon the street through discreetly closed windows.
At any rate, there was talk in the town. By sundown everybody knew there had been trouble between Harboro and Fectnor, and men who dropped into the Maverick for a game of high-five or poker had their attention called to an unclaimed blue-serge coat hanging from the ice-box.