The cowboy's glittering eyes flashed to and fro, and then fixed on Mulvey and his Mexican companion. That glance singled out these two, and the sudden rush of nervous men proved it. Mulvey and the sheep-herder were left alone in the center of the floor.
“Howdy, Jeff! Where's your boss?” asked Las Vegas. His voice was cool, friendly; his manner was easy, natural; but the look of him was what made Mulvey pale and the Mexican livid.
“Reckon he's home,” replied Mulvey.
“Home? What's he call home now?”
“He's hangin' out hyar at Auchincloss's,” replied Mulvey. His voice was not strong, but his eyes were steady, watchful.
Las Vegas quivered all over as if stung. A flame that seemed white and red gave his face a singular hue.
“Jeff, you worked for old Al a long time, an' I've heard of your differences,” said Las Vegas. “Thet ain't no mix of mine.... But you double-crossed Miss Helen!”
Mulvey made no attempt to deny this. He gulped slowly. His hands appeared less steady, and he grew paler. Again Las Vegas's words signified less than his look. And that look now included the Mexican.
“Pedro, you're one of Beasley's old hands,” said Las Vegas, accusingly. “An'—you was one of them four greasers thet—”
Here the cowboy choked and bit over his words as if they were a material poison. The Mexican showed his guilt and cowardice. He began to jabber.