As he sneered at Buck there was a movement in the crowd before him
and a pathway opened for Frenchy, who stepped forward slowly and
deliberately, as if on his way to some bar for a drink. There was
something different about the man who had searched the Staked Plain
with Hopalong and Red: he was not the same puncher who had arrived
from Montana three weeks before. There was lacking a certain air of
carelessness and he chilled his friends, who looked upon him as if
they had never really known him. He walked up to Mr. Trendley and
gazed deeply into the evil eyes.
Twenty years before, Frenchy McAllister had changed his identity
from a happy-go-lucky, devil-may-care cow-puncher and became a
machine. The grief that had torn his soul was not of the kind which
seeks its outlet in tears and wailing; it had turned and struck
inward, and now his deliberate ferocity was icy and devilish. Only a
glint in his eyes told of exultation, and his words were sharp and
incisive; one could well imagine one heard the click of his teeth as
they bit off the consonants: every letter was clear-cut, every
syllable startling in its clearness.
"Twenty years and two months ago to-day," he began, "you arrived at
the ranchhouse of the Double Y, up near the Montana-Wyoming line.
Everything was quiet, except, perhaps, a woman's voice, singing. You
entered, and before you left you pinned a note to that woman's dress.
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