"You're Jerry's man," said Mac Strann at length.
There was about his voice the same fleshy quality that was in his face;
it came literally from his stomach, and it made a peculiar rustling
sound such as comes after one has eaten sticky sweet things. People
could listen to the voice of Mac Strann and forget that he was speaking
words. The articulation ran together in a sort of glutinous mass.
"I'm a friend of Jerry's," said the other. "I'm Langley."
The big man stretched out his hand. The hair grew black, down to the
knuckles; the blood of the bear still streaked it; it was large enough
to be an organism with independent life. But when Langley, with some
misgiving, trusted his own bony fingers within that grasp, in was only
as if something fleshy, soft, and bloodless had closed over them. When
his hand was released he rubbed it covertly against his trowser leg--to
remove dirt--restore the circulation. He did not know why.
"Who's bothering Jerry?" asked Mac Strann. "And where is he?"
He went to the wall without waiting for an answer and took down the
saddle. Now the cowpuncher's saddle is a heavy mass of leather and
steel, and the saddle of Mac Strann was far larger than the ordinary.
Yet he took down the saddle as one might remove a card from a rack.
Haw-Haw Langley moved towards the door, to give himself a free space for
exit.
"Jerry's hurt," he said, and he watched.
There was a ripple of pain on the face of Mac Strann.
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