There was such pride and scorn in the man that his name came up to the
lips of Pierre: "McGurk."
A surprisingly gentle voice said: "Jim, I'm sorry to drop in on you
this way, but I've had some unpleasant news."
His words dispelled part of the charm. The hands of big Boone lowered;
the others assumed more natural positions, but each, it seemed to
Pierre, took particular and almost ostentatious care that their
right hands should be always far from the holsters of their guns.
The stranger went on: "Martin Ryder is finished, as I suppose you
know. He left a spawn of two mongrels behind him. I haven't bothered
with them, but I'm a little more interested in another son that has
cropped up. He's sitting over there in your family party and his name
is Pierre. In his own country they call him Pierre le Rouge, which
means Red Pierre, in our talk.
"You know I've never crossed you in anything before, Jim. Have I?"
Boone moistened his white lips and answered: "Never," huskily, as if
it were a great muscular effort for him to speak.
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