“Let’s see it!”
My little symbol, which Moore had given me, hung from a cord around my own neck. I fished inside my shirt, found it and held it out to him.
He stepped forward and glanced at it. “Good,” he said, and flung his revolver on my bed. “Now we can talk.”
I sat down rather weakly. “Who are you, anyway? And why the hold-up?”
“The Chief sent me to replace Moore,” he answered. “And as to the hold-up, look at yourself in the glass. You don’t look much like the Society man I expected to see.”
I sat still and looked him over for a moment or two. He was tall and raw-boned and his clothes hung on him in straight lines, like a flag on a still day. A New England type, I thought. But the face was cosmopolitan. It was a long, shrewd face, thin and deeply lined. The eyes were steel blue and set rather close to a thin, aquiline nose. But there were whimsical, mirthful lines radiating away from them, and the mouth held humor and strength both. A man of devious ways, I thought, but a good fellow and a good friend probably. I smiled suddenly.
“Well, I’m damned glad you’ve come, anyway, I’ll tell you that much. I’ve been about as busy as any man ought to be for the last three days. And I seem to have made a pretty thorough mess of things.” I leaned forward. “What’s your name?”
“Pride,” he answered, and we shook hands gravely. Then he got up. “The first thing I’m going to do, my dear Clayton,” he said briskly, “is to dress your hands and face. You’ll be a nice-looking object for a day or two, anyway. But if we don’t put something on that face of yours, you’ll be scarred for life. Besides, the sooner it heals, the sooner you’ll cease to be a marked man, eh? For I don’t suppose you got that little lot climbing trees or hitching behind wagons. So turn out your medicine chest.”
“I haven’t a thing here,” I told him. “And that can wait. I want to hear your news and tell you mine.”
He got up, reached for his hat and stalked to the door. “See you in ten minutes. I’m going out for some bandages.” And he was gone.