“Le Saint.”
Silver Sleed stared down at Loper; stared curiously, vacantly. He lifted one hand and brushed it across his lips, while his fixed gaze seemed to look through Loper and beyond. Loper shifted nervously, but Sleed continued to stare.
Suddenly he jerked, like a man awaking from sleep, and sat down slowly in a chair.
“Le Saint,” he muttered softly.
“Funny first name,” said Loper slowly. “Paget, I think he called it. Must be a furriner.”
Silver Sleed did not seem to hear him.
“I dunno what the other feller’s name is, but he sure looks like he could take care of himself. Packs a gun that looks like it had been used a-plenty; and he’s got the walk of a cat. The old man’s gun ain’t no ornyment either. Mebbe he’s a preacher—I dunno.”
Sleed continued to stare at the table-top.
“Want me to pack a talk to him?” asked Loper. “I can tell him to put out of here, or that he can’t run no game in Calico.”