“He did!” said DuMond emphatically. “Not that I give a damn about it, yuh understand. Me and old McCoy ain’t been friends for years, and I hope I live long enough to tip over his tombstone, but it was a dirty deal. Angel’s a crook if there ever was one.”
DuMond hammered on the bar with his glass and indicated to the bartender that they would drink again.
“Old Rance was in town today,” offered Eddie Marsh, one of the 77 punchers. “I seen him at the bank.”
“Thasso?” DuMond cleared his throat harshly. “Mebby he knowed I was comin’ in, and that’s why he pulled out.”
“You’re crazy,” declared Butch Reimer. “He’d fill you full of lead before yuh could reach to yore gun.”
“Like hell!” flared DuMond. “He ain’t so fast. You gimme an even break with that old hound, and I’ll—I’ll——”
DuMond’s voice trailed off into space. He was staring at the back-bar mirror as though hypnotized. Butch Reimer leaned forward, staring into the mirror too. Directly behind them stood old Rance McCoy, his stony old eyes looking at them in the mirror. DuMond choked softly. His elbows were on the top of the bar, and it seemed that he was unable to lift them off.
Langley turned and looked at the old man.
“Hyah, Rance,” he said, smiling. “Long time I no see yuh.”
But the old man’s eyes did not shift.