He glared his triumph at Pierre, but the latter was too puzzled to quail, and too stirred by the pale, gloomy face of Cochrane to turn toward the other. "What of Diaz?" "Look here, boy. You're a kid, all right, but you ain't that young. D'you mean to say that you ain't heard of Carlos Diaz?" It came back to Pierre then, for even into the snowbound seclusion of the north country the shadow of the name of Diaz had gone. He could not remember just what they were, but he seemed to recollect grim tales through which that name figured. The other went on: "But if you ain't ever seen him before, look him over now. They's some says he's faster on the draw than Bob McGurk, but, of course, that's stretchin' him out a size too much. What's the matter, kid; you've met McGurk?" "No, but I'm going to." "Might even be carried to him, eh--feet first?" Pierre turned and laid a hand on the shoulder of the other. "Don't talk like that," he said gently. "I don't like it." The other reached up to snatch the hand from his shoulder, but he stayed his arm. He said after an uncomfortable moment of that silent staring: "Well, partner, there ain't a hell of a lot to get sore over, is there? You don't figure you're a mate for McGurk, do you?" He seemed oddly relieved when the eyes of Pierre moved away from him and returned to the figure of Carlos Diaz. The Mexican was a perfect model for a painting of a melodramatic villain. He had waxed and twirled the end of his black mustache so that it thrust out a little spur on either side of his long face. His habitual expression was a scowl; his habitual position was with a cigarette in the fingers of his left hand, and his right hand resting on his hip. He sat in a chair directly behind that of Hurley, and Pierre's new-found acquaintance explained: "He's the bodyguard for Hurley. Maybe there's some who could down Hurley in a straight gunfight; maybe there's one or two like McGurk that could down Diaz--damn his yellow hide--but there ain't no one can buck the two of 'em. It ain't in reason. So they play the game together. Hurley works the cards and Diaz covers up the retreat. Can't beat that, can you?" Pierre le Rouge slipped his left hand once more inside his shirt until the fingers touched the cross. "Nevertheless, that game has to stop." "Who'll--say, kid, are you stringin' me, or are you drunk? Look me in the eye!" CHAPTER 6 Pierre turned and looked calmly upon the other. And the man whispered in a sort of awe: "Well, I'll be damned!" "Stand aside!" The other fell back a pace, and Pierre went straight to the table and said to Cochrane: "Sir, I have come to take you home." The old man looked up and rubbed his eyes as though waking from a sleep. "Stand back from the table!" warned Hurley. "By the Lord, have they been missing me?" queried old Cochrane. "You are waited for," answered Pierre le Rouge, "and I've been sent to take you home." "If that's the case--" "It ain't the case. The kid's lying."