Knell had spoken hurriedly and low, now and then with passion. His pale eyes glinted like fire in ice, and now his voice fell to a whisper.
“Who do you think Fletcher's new man is?”
“Who?” demanded Longstreth.
“BUCK DUANE!”
Down came Longstreth's boots with a crash, then his body grew rigid.
“That Nueces outlaw? That two-shot ace-of-spades gun-thrower who killed Bland, Alloway—?”
“An' Hardin.” Knell whispered this last name with more feeling than the apparent circumstance demanded.
“Yes; and Hardin, the best one of the Rim Rock fellows—Buck Duane!”
Longstreth was so ghastly white now that his black mustache seemed outlined against chalk. He eyed his grim lieutenant. They understood each other without more words. It was enough that Buck Duane was there in the Big Bend. Longstreth rose presently and reached for a flask, from which he drank, then offered it to Knell. He waved it aside.
“Knell,” began the chief, slowly, as he wiped his lips, “I gathered you have some grudge against this Buck Duane.”