The gunfighter after a while got up and went dragging off into the dark; Farraday, knowing the risk, permitted this, not even bothering to move away from the fire. Having no idea what kind of food he was putting into him, he went on with his eating, forcing the stuff down, disregarding the girl and the men’s covert glances. As he had reminded himself earlier, there was just one thing he wanted out of this — the means of forcing Crotton to come to terms or, failing that, smashing him. When Frijoles got up to toss his tin in the wreck pan Farraday said, “How many we got out there watching that stock?” Frijoles was a wiry shape beneath a chin-strapped sombrero. His dark, whiskered face shied away. “Dos hombres, senor.” “Find Idaho and send them in.” Grete wheeled. “My horse is ready to be watered, Ben.” The Mexican rode off. Ben Hollis glared. Hatred poured out of his eyes strong as tears. A violent agony of choice broke out across his beefy cheeks but in the end he got to his feet.
