“Didja notice how many buzzards has been floatin’ around t’day? Been a whole flock of ’em circlin’ Calico fer two hours. That old white-bearded hombre was settin’ on a rock fer a long time, like he was thinkin’ a heap, and then I seen him oilin’ his six-gun. Mebbe he’s a preacher; I dunno.”
Mica Cates stopped for breath and glanced up at the sky, where a flock of buzzards circled slowly, and without visible effort. Cates lowered his eyes and glanced at Luck.
“’S hard to fool a buzzard,” he said, and went on down the trail. He had fulfilled his duty and added a prophecy to boot.
Luck’s eyes followed the buzzards for a while, as they circled slowly on an even plane, as though suspended by invisible wires, and went back into the house. There was something ominous in the atmosphere, and Luck had not given her word to keep off the street.
Loper had passed the word to Bill Fane and “Pecos” Mendez as to what Silver Sleed expected, and the three of them met in the Silver Bar saloon. Fane was a tall, cadaverous person, with a crooked mouth, which gave him a perpetual leer. Mendez was a half-breed, whose mentality was hardly up to par, but whose pistol ability and cold-blooded nerve were seldom equaled.
“We tak’ care of de yong man, eh?” queried Mendez, his voice like the purring of a cat. “Dat be easy, eh, Beel?”
Fane nodded absently.
“No killin’ is easy,” objected Loper. “This young man packs a gun like he knowed how to use it, and he’s got a face that backs up the looks of his gun. You two better figure that this ain’t goin’t’ be no picnic.”
“What does Sleed want ’em killed fer?” asked Fane.