At The Wickiup
“Yes.”
“I think I do, too. I think it was the fellow that shot so well with the rifle at the barbecue—what was his name? He was working for Sinclair, and perhaps is yet.”
“You mean Seagrue, the Montana cowboy? No, you are wrong. Seagrue is a man-killer, but a square one.”
“How do you know?”
“I will tell you sometime—but this was not Seagrue.”
“One of Dunning’s men, was it? Stormy Gorman?”
“No, no, a very different sort! Stormy is a wind-bag. The man that is after you is in town at this minute, and he has come to stay until he finishes his job.”
“The devil! That’s what makes your eyes so bright, is it? Do you know him?”
“I have seen him. You may see him yourself if you want to.”
“I’d like nothing better. When?”
“To-night—in thirty minutes.” McCloud closed his desk. There was a rap at the door.
“That must be Kennedy,” said Smith. “I haven’t seen him, but I sent word for him to meet me here.” The door opened and Kennedy entered the room.
151
