He barely whispered. “No; damn you!”
But Black Gandil loved evil.
He said, with a marvelously unpleasant smile: “Then she was—”
The voice of Dick Wilbur cut in like the snapping of a whip: “Shut up, Gandil, you devil!”
There were times when not even Boone would cross Wilbur, and this was one of them.
Pierre went on: “The reason I can't go to Morgan town is that I'm not very well liked by some of the men there.”
“Why not?”
“When my father died there was no money to pay for his burial. I had only a half-dollar piece. I went to the town and gambled and won a great deal. But before I came out I got mixed up with a man called Hurley, a professional gambler.”
“And Diaz?” queried a chorus.
“Yes. Hurley was hurt in the wrist and Diaz died. I think I'm wanted in Morgantown.”
Out of a little silence came the voice of Black Gandil: “Dick, I'm thankin' you now for cuttin' me so short a minute ago.”
Phil Branch had not spoken, as usual, but now he repeated, with rapt, far-off eyes: “'Hurley was hurt in the wrist and Diaz died?' Hurley and Diaz! I played with Hurley, a couple of times.”
“Speakin' personal,” said Garry Patterson, his red verging toward purple in excitement, “which I'm ready to go with you down to Morgantown and bury your father.”
“And do it shipshape,” added Black Gandil.
“With all the trimmings,” said Bud Mansie, “with all Morgantown joinin' the mournin' voluntarily under cover of our six-guns.”
“Wait,” said Boone. “What's the second request?”
“That can wait.”
“It's a bigger job than this one?”
“Lots bigger.”
“And in the meantime?”
“I'm your man.”
They shook hands. Even Black Gandil rose to take his share in the ceremony—all save Bud Mansie, who had glanced out the window a moment before and then silently left the room. A bottle of whisky was produced and glasses filled all round. Jim Boone brought in the seventh chair and placed it at the table. They raised their glasses.
“To the empty chair,” said Boone.
They drank, and for the first time in his life, the liquid fire went down the throat of Pierre. He set down his glass, coughing, and the others laughed good-naturedly.
“Started down the wrong way?” asked Wilbur.
“It's beastly stuff; first I ever drank.”
A roar of laughter answered him.
“Still I got an idea,” broke in Jim Boone, “that he's worthy of takin' the seventh chair. Draw it up lad.”
Vaguely it reminded Pierre of a scene in some old play with himself in the role of the hero signing away his soul to the devil, but an interruption kept him from taking the chair. There was a racket at the door—a half-sobbing, half-scolding voice, and the laughter of a man; then Bud Mansie appeared carrying Jack in spite of her struggles. He placed her on the floor and held her hands to protect himself from her fury.
“I glimpsed her through the window,” he explained. “She was lining out for the stable and then a minute later I saw her swing a saddle onto—what horse d'you think?”
“Out with it.”
“Jim's big Thunder. Yep, she stuck the saddle on big black Thunder and had a rifle in the holster. I saw there was hell brewing somewhere, so I went out and nabbed her.”
“Jack!” called Jim Boone. “What were you started for?”
Bud Mansie released her arms and she stood with them stiffening at her sides and her fists clenched.
“Hal—he died, and there was nothing but talk about him—nothing done. You got a live man in Hal's place.”
She pointed an accusing finger at Pierre.
“Maybe he takes his place for you, but he's not my brother—I hate him. I went out to get another man to make up for Pierre.”
“Well?”
“A dead man. I shoot straight enough for that.”
A very solemn silence spread through the room; for every man was watching in the eyes of the father and daughter the same shining black devil of wrath.
