The three faces stared back at him through the snow, crystalizing what he had felt all day but had not been able to explain. Those faces.
They had nothing against Mayor Spurgess. Perhaps they had never even seen him. If they didn't like him and had a reason and wanted to kill him, that wouldn't be so bad. That would be fine. But they were here to kill him because McLeod had signed the application along with Lantrel. They wanted to do the job and get back to warmer places and hot buttered rum or whatever they liked.
"He come out yet?" the older gunman asked.
"I don't think he will, not in this weather. What other plans have you got?"
"We'll just wait and see. We don't have to make the plans."
Had they been able to read McLeod's face as readily as he had read theirs? "I don't understand," he said. "You'll have to think of something else if he doesn't take his walk, won't you?"
"You say you were from the paper, guy?"
"Of course."
"Well, you're not making sense."