"Jerry'll raise hell," a heavy voice was saying as they entered the room. "And that ain't all. We'll land in stir if we don't look out. We just ducked a bad fall. The bulls pretty near had us that time we poked our nose out from the Park at Seventy-Second Street."
Some one pressed a button and the room leaped to light. Through the open crack of the closed door Clay recognized Gorilla Dave. The second of the gunmen was out of range of his vision.
From the sound of creaking furniture Clay judged that the unseen man had sat down heavily. "It was that blowout queered us. And say—how came the bulls so hot on our trail? Who rapped to 'em?"
"Must 'a' been that boob wit' the goil. He got busy quick. Well, Jerry won't have to salve the cops this time. We made our getaway all right," said Dave.
"Say, where's Joey?"
"Pulled a sneak likely. Wha's it matter? Listen! What's that?"
Some one was coming up the stairs.
The men in the room moved cautiously to the door. The hall light was switched on.
"'Lo, Jerry," Gorilla Dave called softly.
He closed the room door and the sound of the voices was shut off instantly.
The uninvited guest dared not step out of the closet to listen, for at any instant the men might reënter. He crouched in his hiding-place, the thirty-eight in his hand.
The minutes dragged interminably. More than once Clay almost made up his mind to steal out to learn what the men were doing. But his judgment told him he must avoid a brush with so many if possible.
The door opened again.
"Now beat it and do as I say if you know what's good for you," a bullying voice was ordering.
The owner of the voice came in and slammed the door behind him. He sat down at the desk, his back to the closet. Through the chink Clay saw that the man was Jerry Durand.
From his vest pocket he took a fat black cigar, struck a match and lit it. He slumped down in the swivel chair. It took no seer to divine that his mind was busy working out a problem.
Clay stepped softly from his place of refuge, but not so noiselessly that the gangman did not detect his presence. Jerry swung round in the chair and leaped up with cat-like activity. He stood without moving, poised on the balls of his feet, his deep-set eyes narrowed to shining slits. It was in his thought to hurl himself headlong on the man holding steadily the menacing revolver.
"Don't you! I've got the dead wood on you," said the Arizonan, a trenchant saltness in his speech. "I'll shoot you down sure as hell's hot."
The eyes of the men clashed, measuring each the other's strength of will. They were warily conscious even of the batting of an eyelid. Durand's face wore an ugly look of impotent malice, but his throat was dry as a lime kiln. He could not estimate the danger that confronted him nor what lay back of the man's presence.
"What you doin' here?" he demanded.
"Makin' my party call," retorted Clay easily.
Jerry cursed him with a low, savage stream of profanity. The gangman enraged was not a sight pleasing to see.
"I reckon heaven, hell, and high water couldn't keep you from cussin' now. Relieve yore mind proper, Mr. Durand. Then we'll talk business," murmured Clay in the low, easy drawl that never suggested weakness.
The ex-prize-fighter's flow of language dried up. He fell silent and stood swallowing his furious rage. It had come home to him that this narrow-flanked young fellow with the close-gripped jaw and the cool, steady eyes was entirely unmoved by his threats.
"Quite through effervescing?" asked Clay contemptuously.
The gang leader made no answer. He chose to nurse his venom silently.
"Where's Kitty Mason?"
Still no answer.
"I asked you what you've done with Kitty Mason?"
"What's that to you?"
"I'm close-herdin' that li'l' girl and I'll not have yore dirty hands touch her. Where is she?"
"That's my business."
"By God, you'll tell, or I'll tear it out of you!"
Clay backed to the door, found the key, transferred it to the inner side of the lock, turned it, and put it in his pocket.
The cornered gangman took a chance. He ducked for the shelter of the desk, tore open a drawer, and snatched out an automatic.
Simultaneously the cowpuncher pressed the button beside the door and plunged the room in darkness. He side-stepped swiftly and without noise.
A flash of lightning split the blackness.
Clay dropped to his knees and crawled away. Another bolt, with its accompanying roar, flamed out.
Still the Westerner did not fire in answer, though he knew just where the target for his bullet was. A plan had come to him. In the blackness of that room one might empty his revolver and not score a hit. To wait was to take a chance of being potted, but he did not want the death of even such a ruffian as Durand on his soul.
The crash of the automatic and the rattle of glass filled the room.Jerry, blazing away at some fancied sound, had shattered the window.
Followed a long silence. Durand had changed his tactics and was resolved to wait until his enemy grew restless and betrayed himself.
The delay became a test of moral stamina. Each man knew that death was in that room lying in wait for him. The touch of a finger might send it flying across the floor. Upon the mantel a clock ticked maddeningly, the only sound to be heard.
The contest was not one of grit, but of that unflawed nerve which is so much the result of perfect physical fitness. Clay's years of clean life on the desert counted heavily now. He was master of himself, though his mouth was dry as a whisper and there were goose quills on his flesh.
But Durand, used to the fetid atmosphere of bar-rooms and to the soft living of the great city, found his nerve beginning to crack under the strain. Cold drops stood out on his forehead and his hands shook from excitement and anxiety. What kind of a man was his enemy to lie there in the black silence and not once give a sign of where he was, in spite of crashing bullets? There was something in it hardly human. For the first time in his life Jerry feared he was up against a better man.
Was it possible that he could have killed the fellow at the first shot? The comfort of this thought whispered hope in the ear of the ex-prize-fighter.
A chair crashed wildly. Durand fired again and yet again, his nerves giving way to a panic that carried him to swift action. He could not have stood another moment without screaming.
There came the faint sound of a hand groping on the wall and immediately after a flood of light filled the room.
Clay stood by the door. His revolver covered the crouching gang leader. His eyes were hard and pitiless.
"Try another shot," he advised ironically.
Jerry did. A harmless click was all the result he got. He knew now that the cowman had tempted him to waste his last shots at a bit of furniture flung across the room.
"You'll tell me what you did with Kitty Mason," said Clay in his low, persuasive voice, just as though there had been no intermission of flying bullets since he had mentioned the girl before.
"You can't kill me, when I haven't a loaded gun," Durand answered between dry lips.
The other man nodded an admission of the point. "That's an advantage you've got of me. You could kill me if I didn't have a gun, because you're a yellow wolf. But I can't kill you. That's right. But I can beat hell out of you, and I'm sure goin' to do it."
"Talk's cheap, when you've got a loaded six-gun in your fist," jeeredJerry.
With a flirt of his hand Clay tossed the revolver to the top of a book-case, out of easy reach of a man standing on the floor. He ripped open the buttons of his overcoat and slipped out of it, then moved forward with elastic step.
"It's you or me now, Jerry Durand."
The prize-fighter gave a snort of derisive triumph. "You damn fool!I'll eat you alive."
"Mebbeso. I reckon my system can assimilate any whalin' you're liable to hand me. Go to it."
Durand had the heavy shoulders and swelling muscles that come from years of training for the ring. Like most pugilists out of active service he had taken on flesh. But the extra weight was not fat, for Jerry kept always in good condition. He held his leadership partly at least because of his physical prowess. No tough in New York would willingly have met him in rough-and-tumble fight.
The younger man was more slightly built. He was a Hermes rather than a Hercules. His muscles flowed. They did not bulge. But when he moved it was with the litheness of a panther. The long lines of shoulder and loin had the flow of tigerish grace. The clear eyes in the brown face told of a soul indomitable in a perfectly synchronized body.
Durand lashed out with a swinging left, all the weight of his body behind the blow. Clay stepped back, shot a hard straight right to the cheek, and ducked the counter. Jerry rushed him, flailing at his foe blow on blow, intending to wear him out by sheer hard hammering. He butted with head and knee, used every foul trick he had learned in his rotten trade of prize-fighting. Active as a wild cat, the Arizonan side-stepped, scored a left on the eye, ducked again, and fought back the furious attack.
The gangman came out of the rally winded, perplexed, and disturbed. His cheek was bleeding, one eye was in distress, and he had hardly touched his agile opponent.
He rushed again. Nothing but his temper, the lack of self-control that made him see red and had once put him at the mercy of a first-class ring general with stamina and a punch, had kept Jerry out of a world championship. He had everything else needed, but he was the victim of his own passion. It betrayed him now. His fighting was that of a wild cave man, blind, furious, damaging. He threw away his science and his skill in order to destroy the man he hated. He rained blows on him—fought him with head and knee and fist, was on top of him every moment, controlled by one dominating purpose to make that dancing figure take the dust.
How Clay weathered the storm he did not know. Some blows he blocked, others he side-stepped, a few he took on face and body. He was cool, quite master of himself. Before the fight had gone three minutes he knew that, barring a chance blow, some foul play, or a bit of bad luck, he would win. He was covering up, letting the pugilist wear himself out, and taking only the punishment he must. But he was getting home some heavy body blows that were playing the mischief with Jerry's wind.
The New Yorker, puffing like a sea lion, came out of a rally winded and spent. Instantly Clay took the offensive. He was a trained boxer as well as a fighter, and he had been taught how to make every ounce of his weight count. Ripping in a body blow as a feint, he brought down Durand's guard. A straight left crashed home between the eyes and a heavy solar plexus shook the man to the heels.
Durand tried to close with him. An uppercut jolted him back. He plunged forward again. They grappled, knocking over chairs as they threshed across the room. When they went down Clay was underneath, but as they struck the floor he whirled and landed on top.
The man below fought furiously to regain his feet. Clay's arm worked like a piston rod with short-arm jolts against the battered face.
A wild heave unseated the Arizonan. They clinched, rolled over and bumped against the wall, Clay again on top. For a moment Durand got a thumb in his foe's eye and tried to gouge it out. Clay's fingers found the throat of the gang leader and tightened. Jerry struggled to free himself, catching at the sinewy wrist with both hands. He could not break the iron grip. Gasping for breath, he suddenly collapsed.
Clay got to his feet and waited for Durand to rise. His enemy rolled over and groaned.
"Had enough?" demanded the Westerner.
No answer came, except the heavy, irregular breathing of the man on the floor who was clawing for air in his lungs.
"I'll ask you once more where Kitty Mason is. And you'll tell me unless you want me to begin on you all over again."
The beaten pugilist sat up, leaning against the wall. He spoke with a kind of heavy despair, as though the words were forced out of him. He felt ashamed and disgraced by his defeat. Life for him had lost its savor, for he had met his master.
"She—got away."
"How?"
"They turned her loose, to duck the bulls," came the slow, sullen answer.
"Where?"
"In Central Park."
Probably this was the truth, Clay reflected. He could take the man's word or not as he pleased. There was no way to disprove it now.
He recovered his revolver, threw the automatic out of the window, and walked to the door.
"Joe's tied up in a back room," he said over his shoulder.
Thirty seconds later Clay stepped into the street. He walked across to a subway station and took an uptown train.
Men looked at him curiously. His face was bruised and bleeding, his clothes disheveled, his hat torn. Clay grinned and thought of the old answer:
"They'd ought to see the other man."
One young fellow, apparently a college boy, who had looked upon the wine when it was red, was moved to come over and offer condolence.
"Say, I don't want to butt in or anything, but—he didn't do a thing to you, did he?"
"I hit the edge of a door in the dark," explained Clay solemnly.
"That door must have had several edges." The youth made a confidential admission. "I've got an edge on myself, sort of."
"Not really?" murmured Clay politely.
"Surest thing you know. Say, was it a good scrap?"
"I'd hate to mix in a better one."
"Wish I'd been there." The student fumbled for a card. "Didn't catch your name?"
Clay had no intention of giving his name just now to any casual stranger. He laughed and hummed the chorus of an old range ditty:
"I'm a poor lonesome cowboy,I'm a poor lonesome cowboy,I'm a poor lonesome cowboy,And a long way from home."
When Clay shot off at a tangent from the car and ceased to function as a passenger, Johnnie made an effort to descend and join his friend, but already the taxi was traveling at a speed that made this dangerous. He leaned out of the open door and shouted to the driver.
"Say, lemme out, doggone you. I wantta get out right here."
The chauffeur paid not the least attention to him. He skidded round a corner, grazing the curb, and put his foot on the accelerator. The car jumped forward.
The passenger, about to drop from the running-board, changed his mind.He did not want to break a bone or two in the process of alighting.
"'F you don't lemme off right away I'll not pay you a cent for the ride," Johnnie shouted. "You got no right to pack me off thisaway."
The car was sweeping down the wet street, now and again skidding dangerously. The puncher felt homesick for the security of an outlaw bronco's back. This wild East was no place for him. He had been brought up in a country where life is safe and sane and its inhabitants have a respect for law. Tame old Arizona just now made a big appeal to one of its sons.
The machine went drunkenly up the street, zigzagging like a homeward-bound reveler. It swung into Fourth Avenue, slowing to take the curve. At the widest sweep of the arc Johnnie stepped down. His feet slid from under him and he rolled to the curb across the wet asphalt. Slowly he got up and tested himself for broken bones. He was sure he had dislocated a few hips and it took him some time to persuade himself he was all right, except for some bruises.
But Johnnie free had no idea what to do. He was as helpless as Johnnie imprisoned in the flying cab. Of what Clay's plan had been he had not the remotest idea. Yet he could not go home and do nothing. He must keep searching. But where? One thing stuck in his mind. His friend had mentioned that he would like to get a chance to call the police to find out whether Kitty had been rescued. He was anxious on that point himself. At the first cigar-store he stopped and was put on the wire with headquarters. He learned that a car supposed to be the one wanted had been driven into Central Park by the police a few minutes earlier.
Johnnie's mind carried him on a straight line to the simplest decision. He ran across to Fifth Avenue and climbed into a bus going uptown. If Kitty was in Central Park that was the place to search for her. It did not occur to him that by the time he reached there the car of the abductors would be miles away, nor did he stop to think that his chances of finding her in the wooded recesses of the Park would not be worth the long end of a hundred to one bet.
At the Seventy-Second Street entrance Johnnie left the bus and plunged into the Park. He threaded his way along walks beneath the dripping trees. He took a dozen shower baths under water-laden shrubbery. Sometimes he stopped to let out the wild war-whoop with which he turned cattle at the point in the good old days a month or so ago.
The gods are supposed to favor fools, children, and drunken men. Johnnie had been all of these in his day. To-night he could claim no more than one at most of these reasons for a special dispensation. He would be twenty-three "comin' grass," as he would have expressed it, and he hadn't taken a drink since he came to New York, for Clay had voted himself dry years ago and just now he carried his follower with him.
But the impish gods who delight in turning upside down the best-laid plans of mice and men were working overtime to-night. They arranged it that a girl cowering among the wet bushes bordering an unfrequented path heard the "Hi—yi—yi" of Arizona and gave a faint cry for help. That call reached Johnnie and brought him on the run.
A man beside the girl jumped up with a snarl, gun in hand.
But the Runt had caught a sight of Kitty. A file of fixed bayonets could not have kept him from trying to rescue her. He dived through the brush like a football tackler.
A gun barked. The little man did not even know it. He and the thug went down together, rolled over, clawed furiously at each other, and got to their feet simultaneously. But the cowpuncher held the gun now. The crook glared at him for a moment, and bolted for the safety of the bushes in wild flight.
Johnnie fired once, then forgot all about the private little war he had started. For his arms were full of a sobbing Kitty who clung to him while she wept and talked and exclaimed all in a breath.
"I knew you'd come, Johnnie. I knew you would—you or Clay. They left me here with him while they got away from the police. . . . Oh, I've been so scared. I didn't know—I thought—"
"'S all right. 'S all right, li'l' girl. Don't you cry, Kitty. Me 'n' Clay won't let 'em hurt you none. We sure won't."
"They said they'd come back later for me," she wept, uncertain whether to be hysterical or not.
"I wisht they'd come now," he bragged valorously, and for the moment he did.
She nestled closer, and Johnnie's heart lost a beat. He had become aware of a dull pain in the shoulder and of something wet trickling down his shoulder. But what is one little bullet in your geography when the sweetest girl in the world is in your arms?
"I ain't nothin' but a hammered-down li'l' hayseed of a cowpuncher," he told her, his voice trembling, "an' you're awful pretty an'—an'—"
A flag of color fluttered to her soft cheeks. The silken lashes fell shyly. "I think you're fine and dandy, the bravest man that ever was."
"Do you—figure you could—? I—I—I don't reckon you could ever—"
He stopped, abashed. To him this creature of soft curves was of heaven-sent charm. All the beauty and vitality of her youth called to him. It seemed to Johnnie that God spoke through her. Which is another way of saying that he was in love with her.
She made a rustling little stir in his arms and lifted a flushed face very tender and appealing. In the darkness her lips slowly turned to his.
Johnnie chose that inopportune moment to get sick at the stomach.
"I—I'm goin' to faint," he announced, and did. When he returned to his love-story Johnnie's head was in Kitty's lap and a mounted policeman was in the foreground of the scene. His face was wet from the mist of fine rain falling.
"Don't move. Some one went for a car," she whispered, bending over him so that flying tendrils of her hair brushed his cheek. "Are you—badly hurt?"
He snorted. "I'm a false alarm. Nothin' a-tall. He jes' creased me."
"You're so brave," she cried admiringly.
He had never been told this before. He suspected it was not true, but to hear her say it was manna to his hungry soul.
The policeman helped him into a taxicab after first aid had been given and Johnnie's diagnosis verified. On the way home the cowpuncher made love. He discovered that this can be done quite well with one arm, both parties being willing.
The cab stopped at the house of a doctor and the shoulder was dressed.The doctor made one pardonable mistake.
"Get your wife to give you this sleeping powder if you find you can't sleep," he said.
"Y'betcha," answered Johnnie cheerfully.
Kitty looked at him reproachfully and blushed. She scolded him about it after they reached the apartment where they lived.
Her new fiancé defended himself. "He's only a day or two prema-chure, honey. It wasn't hardly worth while explainin'," he claimed.
"A day or two. Oh, Johnnie!"
"Sure. I ain't gonna wait. Wha's the matter with to-morrow?"
"I haven't any clothes made," she evaded, and added by way of diversion, "I always liked that kinda golden down on your cheeks."
"The stores are full of 'em. An' we ain't talkin' about my whiskers—not right now."
"You're a nice old thing," she whispered, flashing into unexpected dimples, and she rewarded him for his niceness in a way he thought altogether desirable.
A crisp, strong step sounded outside. The door opened and Clay came into the room.
He looked at Kitty. "Thank Heaven, you're safe," he said.
"Johnnie rescued me," she cried. "He got shot—in the shoulder."
The men looked at each other.
"Bad, Johnnie?"
"Nope. A plumb li'l' scratch. Wha's the matter with you?"
A gleam of humor flitted into the eyes of the cattleman. "I ran into a door."
"Say, Clay," Johnnie burst out, "I'll betcha can't guess."
His friend laughed in amiable derision, "Oh, you kids in the woods. I knew it soon as I opened the door."
He walked up to the girl and took her hand. "You got a good man,Kitty. I'm wishin' you all the joy in the world."
Her eyes flashed softly. "Don't I know I've got a good man, and I'm going to be happier than I deserve."
Tim Muldoon, in his shirt-sleeves, was busy over a late breakfast when his mother opened the door of the flat to let in Clay Lindsay.
The policeman took one look at the damaged face and forgot the plate of ham and eggs that had just been put before him.
"Yuh've been at it again!" he cried, his Irish eyes lighting up with anticipatory enjoyment.
"I had a little set-to with friend Jerry last night," the Westerner explained.
"Another?"
"Now don't you blame me. I'm a peaceful citizen—not lookin' for trouble a li'l' bit. But I don't aim to let this Durand comb my hair with a rake."
"What's the trouble now?"
"You heard about the girl abducted in an auto from the Bronx?"
"Uh-huh! Was Jerry in that?"
"He was. I'll tell you the whole story, Tim."
"Meet my mother first. Mother—Mr. Lindsay. Yuh've heard me talk av him."
Mrs. Muldoon's blue Irish eyes twinkled. She was a plump and ample woman, and her handshake was firm and strong.
"I have that. Tim thinks yuh a wonder, Mr. Lindsay."
"Oh, he's prejudiced. You see he doesn't like the Big Mogul Jerry."
"Well, he's sure a booster for yuh."
Clay told the story of his encounter with Durand on the train and of his subsequent meetings with him at the Sea Siren and on the night of the poker party. He made elisions and emendations that removed the bedroom scene from the tale.
"So that's when yuh met Annie Millikan," Tim said. "I was wonderin' how yuh knew her."
"That's when I met her. She's one fine girl, Tim, a sure-enough thoroughbred. She has fought against heavy odds all her life to keep good and honest. And she's done it."
"She has that," agreed Mrs. Muldoon heartily. "Annie is a good girrl.I always liked her."
"I'd bet my last chip on Annie. So last night I went straight to her. She wouldn't throw down 'Slim' Jim, but she gave me an address. I went there and met Durand."
"With his gang?" asked Tim.
"No; I waited till they had gone. I locked myself in a room alone with him. He took eight shots at me in the dark and then we mixed."
"Mother o' Moses!" exclaimed the policeman. "In the dark?"
"No. I had switched the lights on."
"You bate him! I can see it in your eye!" cried Muldoon, pounding the table so that the dishes jumped.
"You'll have to ask him about that." Clay passed to more important facts. "When I reached home Kitty was there. They had dropped her in the Park to make a safe getaway."
"That's good."
"But Tim—when Annie Millikan gave me the address where Jerry Durand was, the driver of my taxi saw her. The man was 'Slim' Jim."
Muldoon sat up, a serious look on his face. "Man, yuh spilt the beans that time. How'd you ever come to do it? They'll take it out on Annie, the dogs." The eyes of the policeman blazed.
"Unless we stand by her."
"Sure, and we'll do that. But how?"
"First we've got to get her away from there to some decent place where she'll be safe."
Mrs. Muldoon spoke up. "And that's easy. She'll just take our spare bedroom and welcome."
Tim put an arm caressingly over his mother's shoulders. "Ain't she the best little sport ever, Mr. Lindsay?" he said proudly.
Clay smiled. "She sure enough grades 'way up."
"It's blarney yuh're both talkin'," snorted Mrs. Muldoon. "Sure the girrl needs a mother and a home. An' I don't doubt she'll pay her way."
"Then that's settled. Will you see Annie, Tim? Or shall I?"
"We'll both see her. But there's another thing. Will she be safe here?"
"I'm goin' to have a talk with 'Slim' Jim and try to throw a scare into him. I'll report to you what he says."
They took a trolley to the lodging-house where Annie lived.
The girl looked pale and tired. Clay guessed she slept little. The memory of "Slim" Jim's snarling had stood out in the darkness at the foot of her bed.
"Is this a pinch?" she asked Tim with a pert little tilt to her chin.
"Yuh can call it that, Annie. Mother wants yuh to come and stay with us."
"And what would I do that for, Mr. Tim Muldoon?" she asked promptly, the color flushing her cheeks.
"Because you're not safe here. That gang will make yuh pay somehow for what yuh did."
"And if your mother took me in they'd make her pay. You'd maybe lose your job."
"I'd find another. I'm thinkin' of quittin' anyhow."
"Say, whadya think I am? I'll not go. I can look out for myself."
"I don't think they'd get Tim," put in Clay. "I'm goin' to see Collins and have a talk with him."
"You can't salve Jim with soft soap."
"Did I mention soft soap?"
"I heard some one most killed Jerry Durand last night," said Annie abruptly, staring at Lindsay's bruised face. "Was it you?"
"Yes," said the Arizonan simply.
"Did you get the girl?"
"They dropped her to save themselves. My friend found her with a man and took her from him."
"I hope you did up Jerry right!" cried Annie, a vindictive flash in her dark eyes.
"I haven't called him up this mo'nin' to see how he's feelin'," said Clay whimsically. "Miss Annie, we're worried some about you. Mrs. Muldoon is right anxious for us to get you to come and stay awhile with her. She's honin' to have a li'l' girl to mother. Don't you reckon you can go?"
"I—I wish yuh'd come, Annie," blurted out Tim, looking down his nose.
Tears brimmed in Annie's eyes. To Clay it seemed there was something hungry in the look the girl gave Muldoon. She did not want his pity alone. She would not have their hospitality if they were giving it to a girl they despised and wanted to reform.
"I'm an alley cat you're offerin' to take in and feed, Tim Muldoon," she charged suspiciously.
"Yuh're the girl—my mother loves." He choked on the impulsive avowal he had almost made and finished the sentence awkwardly. It was impossible for him to escape the natural male instinct to keep his feelings out of words.
The girl's face softened. Inside, she was a river of tenderness flowing toward the Irishman. "I'll go to your mother, Tim, if she really wants me," she cried almost in a murmur.
"You're shoutin' now, Miss Annie," said Clay, smiling. "She sure wants you. I'll hit the trail to have that talk with Jim Collins."
He found "Slim" Jim at his stand. That flashily dressed young crook eyed him with a dogged and wary defiance. He had just come from a call at the bedside of Jerry Durand and he felt a healthy respect for the man who could do what this light-stepping young fellow had done to the champion rough-houser of New York. The story Jerry had told was of an assault from behind with a club, but this Collins did not accept at par. There were too many bruises on his sides and cuts on his face to be accounted for in any way except by a hard toe-to-toe fight.
"Mo'nin', Mr. Collins. I left you in a hurry last night and forgot to pay my bill. What's the damage?" asked Clay in his gently ironic drawl.
"Slim" Jim growled something the meaning of which was drowned in an oath.
"You say it was a free ride? Much obliged. That's sure fair enough,"Clay went on easily. "Well, I didn't come to talk to you about that.I've got other business with you this mo'nin'."
The chauffeur looked at him sullenly and silently.
"Suppose we get inside the cab where we can talk comfortably," Clay proposed.
"Say, I'll stay right where I'm at," announced "Slim" Jim.
The cattleman opened the cab door. "Oh, no, we'll go inside," he said softly.
The men looked at each other and battled. The eye is a more potent weapon than the rapier. The shallow, shifty ones of the gunman fell before the deep, steady ones of the Arizonan. "Slim" Jim, with a touch of swagger to save his face, stepped into the cab and sat down. Clay followed him, closing the door.
"Have you seen Jerry Durand this sunny mo'nin'?" asked Lindsay with surface amiability.
"Wot's it to you?" demanded Collins.
"Not a thing. Nothin' a-tall," agreed Clay. "But it may be somethin' to you. I'm kinda wonderin' whether I'll have to do to you what I did to him."
"Slim" Jim was not a man of his hands. He could use a gun on occasion, if the advantage was all in his favor, but he strictly declined personal encounters at closer quarters. Now he reached for the door hastily.
A strong, sinewy hand fell on his arm and tightened, slightly twisting the flesh as the fingers sank deeper.
Collins let out a yell. "Gawd! Don't do that. You're killin' me."
"Beg yore pardon. An accident. If I get annoyed I'm liable to hurt without meanin' to," apologized Clay suavely. "I'll come right down to brass tacks, Mr. Collins. You're through with Annie Millikan. Understand?"
"Say, wot t'ell's this stuff you're pipin'? Who d' you t'ink youse are?"
"Never mind who I am. You'll keep away from Annie from now on—absolutely. If you bother her—if anything happens to her—well, you go and take a good long look at Durand before you make any mistakes."
"You touch me an' I'll croak you. See!" hissed Collins. "It won't be rough-house stuff with me. I'll fix youse so the gospel sharks'll sing gather-at-the-river for you."
"A gun-play?" asked Clay pleasantly. "Say, there's a shootin'-gallery round the corner. Come along. I wantta show you somethin'."
"Aw, go to hell!"
The sinewy hand moved again toward the aching muscles of the gunman.Collins changed his mind hurriedly.
"All right. I'll come," he growled.
Clay tossed a dollar down on the counter, took a .32, and aimed at the row of ducks sailing across the gallery pool. Each duck went down as it appeared. He picked up a second rifle and knocked over seven or eight mice as they scampered across the target screen. With a third gun he snuffed the flaming eye from the right to the left side of the face that grinned at him, then with another shot sent it back again. He smashed a few clay pipes by way of variety. To finish off with he scored six center shots in a target and rang a bell each time. Not one single bullet had failed to reach its mark.
The New York gunman had never seen such speed and accuracy. He was impressed in spite of the insolent sneer that still curled his lip.
"Got a six-shooter—a fohty-five?" asked Clay of the owner of the gallery.
"No."
"Sorry. I'm not much with a rifle, but I'm a good average shot with a six-gun. I kinda take to it natural."
They turned and walked back to the cab. Collins fell into the Bowery strut.
"Tryin' to throw a scare into me," he argued feebly.
"Me? Oh, no. You mentioned soft music and the preacher. Mebbeso. But it's liable to be for you if you monkey with the buzz-saw. I'm no gun-sharp, but no man who can't empty a revolver in a shade better than two seconds and put every bullet inside the rim of a cup at fifteen yards wants to throw lead at me. You see, I hang up my hat in Arizona. I grew up with a six-gun by my side."
"I should worry. This is little old New York, not Arizona," the gangman answered.
"That's what yore boss Durand thought. What has it brought him but trouble? Lemme give you something to chew on. New York's the biggest city of the biggest, freest country on God's green footstool. You little sewer rats pull wires and think you run it. Get wise, you poor locoed gink. You run it about as much as that fly on the wheel of yore taxi drives the engine. Durand's the whole works by his way of it, but when some one calls his bluff see where he gets off."
"He ain't through with you yet," growled "Slim" Jim sulkily.
"Mebbe not, but you—you're through with Annie." Clay caught him by the shoulder and swung him round. His eyes bored chilly into the other man. "Don't you forget to remember not to forget that. Let her alone. Don't go near her or play any tricks to hurt her. Lay off for good. If you don't—well, you'll pay heavy. I'll be on the job personal to collect."
Clay swung away and strode down the street, light-heeled and lithe, the sap of vital youth in every rippling muscle.
"Slim" Jim watched him, snarling hatred. If ever he got a good chance at him it would be curtains for the guy from Arizona, he swore savagely.
Beatrice, just back from riding with Bromfield, stood on the steps in front of the grilled door and stripped the gloves from her hands.
"I'm on fire with impatience, Bee," he told her. "I can hardly wait for that three weeks to pass. The days drag when I'm not with you."
He was standing a step or two below her, a graceful, well-groomed figure of ease, an altogether desirable catch in the matrimonial market. His dark hair, parted in the middle, was beginning to thin, and tiny crow's-feet radiated from the eyes, but he retained the light, slim figure of youth. It ought not to be hard to love Clarendon Bromfield, his fiancée reflected. Yet he disappointingly failed to stir her pulses.
She smiled with friendly derision. "Poor Clary! You don't look like aVesuvius ready to erupt. You have such remarkable self-control."
His smile met hers. "I can't go up and down the street ringing a bell like a town crier and shouting it out to everybody I meet."
Round the corner of the house a voice was lifted in tuneless song.
"Oh, I'm goin' homeBull-whackin' for to spurn;I ain't got a nickel,And I don't give a dern.'T is when I meet a pretty girl,You bet I will or try,I'll make her my little wife,Root hog or die."
"You see Johnnie isn't ashamed to shout out his good intentions," she said.
"Johnnie isn't engaged to the loveliest creature under heaven. He doesn't have to lie awake nights for fear the skies will fall and blot him out before his day of bliss."
Beatrice dropped a little curtsy. She held out her hand in dismissal."Till to-morrow, Clary."
As Bromfield turned away, Johnnie came round a corner of the house dragging a garden hose. He was attacking another stanza of the song:
"There's hard times on old Bitter CreekThat never can be beat.It was root hog or dieUnder every wagon sheet.We cleared up all the Indians,Drank . . ."
The puncher stopped abruptly at sight of his mistress.
"What did you drink that has made you so happy this morning, Johnnie?" she asked lightly.
The cowpuncher's secret burst from him. "I done got married, MissBeatrice."
"You—what?"
"I up and got married day before yesterday," he beamed.
"And who's the happy girl?"
"Kitty Mason. We jes' walked to the church round the corner. Clay he stood up with us and give the bride away. It's me 'n' her for Arizonapoco pronto."
Beatrice felt a queer joyous lift inside her as of some weight that had gone. In a single breath Johnnie had blown away the mists of misunderstanding that for weeks had clouded her vision. Her heart went out to Clay with a rush of warm emotion. The friend she had distrusted was all she had ever believed him. He was more—a man too stanch to desert under pressure any one who had even a slight claim on him.
"I want to meet her. Will you bring her to see me this afternoon,Johnnie?" she asked.
His face was one glad grin. "I sure will. Y'betcha, by jollies."
He did.
To Beatrice, busy writing a letter, came Jenkins some hours later.
"A young—person—to see you, Miss Whitford."
He said it with a manner so apologetic that it stressed his opinion of the social status of the visitor.
"What kind of a person?"
"A young woman, Miss. From the country, I tyke it."
"She didn't give you a card?"
"No, Miss. She came with the person Mr. Whitford took on to 'elp with the work houtside."
"Oh! Show them both up. And have tea sent in, Jenkins."
Kitty's shy eyes lifted apprehensively to those of this slim young patrician so beautifully and simply gowned. Instantly her fears fled. Beatrice moved swiftly to her with both hands outstretched.
"I'm so glad to meet you."
She kissed the young wife with unaccustomed tenderness. For the Colorado girl had about her a certain modesty that was disarming, an appeal of helplessness Beatrice could not resist.
Kitty, in the arms of her hostess, wept a few tears. She had been under a strain in anticipating the ordeal of meeting Johnnie's mistress, and she had discovered her to be a very sweet, warm-hearted girl.
As for Johnnie, he had a miserably happy half-hour. He had brought his hat in with him and he did not know how to dispose of it. What he did do was to keep it revolving in his hands. This had to be abandoned when Miss Whitford handed him a quite unnecessary cup of tea and a superfluous plate of toasted English muffins. He wished his hands had not been so big and red and freckled. Also he had an uncomfortable suspicion that his tow hair was tousled and uncombed in spite of his attempts at home to plaster it down.
He declined sugar and cream because for some reason it seemed easier to say "No'm" than "Yes," though he always took both with tea. And he disgraced himself by scalding his tongue and failing to suppress the pain. Finally the plate, with his muffin, carefully balanced on his knee, from some devilish caprice plunged over the precipice to the carpet and the bit of china broke.
Whereupon Kitty gently reproved him, as was her wifely duty.
"I ain't no society fellow," the distressed puncher explained to his hostess, tiny beads of perspiration on his forehead.
Beatrice had already guessed as much, but she did not admit it to Johnnie. She and Kitty smiled at each other in that common superiority which their sex gives them to any mere man upon such an occasion. For Mrs. John Green, though afternoon tea was to her too an alien custom, took to it as a duck does to water.
Miss Whitford handed Johnnie an envelope. "Would it be too much trouble for you to take a letter to Mr. Lindsay?" she asked very casually as they rose to go.
The bridegroom said he was much obliged and he would be plumb tickled to take a message to Clay.
When Clay read the note his blood glowed. It was a characteristic two-line apology:
I've been a horrid little prig, Clay [so the letter ran]. Won't you come over to-morrow and go riding with me?
Colin Whitford had been telling Clay the story of how a young cowpuncher had snatched Beatrice from under the hoofs of a charging steer. His daughter and the Arizonan listened without comment.
"I've always thought I'd like to explain to that young man I didn't mean to insult him by offering money for saving Bee. But you see he didn't give me any chance. I never did learn his name," concluded the mining man.
"And of course we'd like him to know that we appreciate what he did for me," Beatrice added. She looked at Clay, and a pulse beat in her soft throat.
"I reckon he knows that," Lindsay suggested. "You must 'a' thought him mighty rude for to break away like you say he did."
"We couldn't understand it till afterwards. Mr. Bromfield had slipped him a fifty-dollar bill and naturally he resented it." Miss Whitford's face bubbled with reminiscent mirth. She looked a question at Clay. "What do you suppose that impudent young scalawag did with the fifty?"
"Got drunk on it most likely."
"He fed it to his horse. Clary was furious."
"He would be," said the cattleman dryly, in spite of the best intentions to be generous to his successful rival. "But I reckon I know why yore grand-stand friend in chaps pulled such a play. In Arizona you can't square such things with money. So far as I can make out the puncher didn't do anything to write home about, but he didn't want pay for it anyhow."
"Of course, Bromfield doesn't understand the West," said Whitford. "I wouldn't like that young puncher half so well if he'd taken the money."
"He didn't need to spoil a perfectly good fifty-dollar bill, though," admitted Clay.
"Yes, he did," denied Beatrice. "That was his protest against Clarendon's misjudgment of him. I've always thought it perfectly splendid in its insolence. Some day I'm going to tell him so."
"It happened in your corner of Arizona, Lindsay. If you ever find out who the chap was I wish you'd let us know," Whitford said.
"I'll remember."
"If you young people are going riding—"
"—We'd better get started. Quite right, Dad. We're off. Clarendon will probably call up. Tell him I'll be in about four-thirty."
She pinched her father's ear, kissed him on one ruddy cheek, then on the other, and joined Clay at the door.
They were friends again, had been for almost half an hour, even though they had not yet been alone together, but their friendship was to hold reservations now. The shadow of Clarendon Bromfield rode between them. They were a little stiff with each other, not so casual as they had been. A consciousness of sex had obtruded into the old boyishcamaraderie.
After a brisk canter they drew their horses together for a walk.
Beatrice broke the ice of their commonplaces. She looked directly at him, her cheeks flushing. "I don't know how you're going to forgive me, Clay. I've been awf'ly small and priggish. I hate to think I'm ungenerous, but that's just what I've been."
"Let's forget it," he said gently.
"No, I don't want to forget—not till I've told you how humble I feel to-day. I might have trusted you. Why didn't I? It would have been easy for me to have taken your little friend in and made things right for her. That's what I ought to have done. But, instead of that—Oh, I hate myself for the way I acted."
Her troubled smile, grave and sweet, touched him closely. It was in his horoscope that the spell of this young Diana must be upon him.
He put his hand on hers as it rested on the pommel of the saddle and gave it a slight pressure. "You're a good scout, li'l' pardner."
But it was Beatrice's way to step up to punishment and take what was coming. As a little girl, while still almost a baby, she had once walked up to her mother, eyes flashing with spirit, and pronounced judgment on herself. "I've tum to be spanked. I broke Claire's doll an' I'm glad of it, mean old fing. So there!" Now she was not going to let the subject drop until she had freed her soul.
"No, Clay, I've been a poor sportsman. When my friend needed me I failed him. It hurts me, because—oh, you know. When the test came I wasn't there. One hates to be a quitter."
Her humility distressed him, though he loved the spirit of her apology.
"It's all right, Bee. Don't you worry. All friends misunderstand each other, but the real ones clear things up."
She had not yet told him the whole truth and she meant to make clean confession.
"I've been a miserable little fool." She stopped with a little catch of the breath, flamed red, and plunged on. Her level eyes never flinched from his. "I've got to out with it, Clay. You won't misunderstand, I know. I was jealous. I wanted to keep your friendship to myself—didn't want to share it with another girl. That's how mean I am."
A warm smile lit his face. "I've sure enough found my friend again this mo'nin'."
Her smile met his. Then, lest barriers fall too fast between them, she put her horse to a gallop.
As they moved into the Park a snorting automobile leaped past them with muffler open. The horse upon which Beatrice rode was a young one. It gave instant signals of alarm, went sunfishing on its hind legs, came down to all fours, and bolted.
Beatrice kept her head. She put her weight on the reins with all the grip of her small, strong hands. But the horse had the bit in its teeth. She felt herself helpless, flying wildly down the road at incredible speed. Bushes and trees, the reeling road, a limousine, a mounted policeman, all flew by her with blurred detail.
She became aware of the rapid thud of hoofs behind, of a figure beside her riding knee to knee, of a brown hand taking hold of the rein close to the bit. The speed slackened. The horses pounded to a halt.
The girl found herself trembling. She leaned back in a haze of dizziness against an arm which circled her shoulder and waist. Memory leaped across the years to that other time when she had rested in his arms, his heart beating against hers. In that moment of deep understanding of herself, Beatrice knew the truth beyond any doubt. A new heaven and a new earth were waiting for her, but she could not enter them. For she herself had closed the gate and locked it fast.
His low voice soothed and comforted her.
"I'm all right," she told him.
Clay withdrew his arm. "I'd report that fellow if I had his number," he said. "You stick to yore saddle fine. You're one straight-up rider."
"I'll ask Mr. Bromfield to give you fifty dollars' again," she laughed nervously.
That wordagainstuck in his consciousness.
"You've known me all along," he charged.
"Of course I've known you—knew you when you stood on the steps after you had tied the janitor."
"I knew you, too."
"Why didn't you say so?"
"Did you expect me to make that grand-stand play on theparadaa claim on yore kindness? I didn't do a thing for you that day any man wouldn't have done. I happened to be the lucky fellow that got the chance. That's all. Come to that, it was up to you to do the recognizing if any was done. I had it worked out that you didn't know me, but once or twice from things you said I almost thought you did."
"I meant to tell you sometime, but—well, I wanted to see how long you could keep from telling me. Now you've done it again."
"I'd like to ride with you the rest of yore life," he said unexpectedly.
They trembled on the edge of self-revelation. It was the girl who rescued them from the expression of their emotions.
"I'll speak to Clary about it. Maybe he'll take you on as a groom," she said with surface lightness.
As soon as they reached home Beatrice led the way into the library. Bromfield was sitting there with her father. They were talking over plans for the annual election of officers of the Bird Cage Mining Company. Whitford was the largest stockholder and Bromfield owned the next biggest block. They controlled it between them.
"Dad, Rob Roy bolted and Mr. Lindsay stopped him before I was thrown."
Whitford rose, the color ebbing from his cheeks. "I've always told you that brute was dangerous. I'll offer him for sale to-day."
"And I've discovered that we know the man who saved me from the wild steer in Arizona. It was Mr. Lindsay."
"Lindsay!" Whitford turned to him. "Is that right?"
"It's correct."
Colin Whitford, much moved, put a hand on the younger man's shoulder. "Son, you know what I'd like to tell you. I reckon I can't say it right."
"We'll consider it said, Mr. Whitford," answered Clay with his quick, boyish smile. "No use in spillin' a lot of dictionary words."
"Why didn't you tell us?"
"It was nothin' to brag about."
Bromfield came to time with a thin word of thanks. "We're all greatly in your debt, Mr. Lindsay."
As the days passed the malicious jealousy of the New York clubman deepened to a steady hatred. A fellow of ill-controlled temper, his thin-skinned vanity writhed at the condition which confronted him. He was engaged to a girl who preferred another and a better man, one against whom he had an unalterable grudge. He recognized in the Westerner an eager energy, a clean-cut resilience, and an abounding vitality he would have given a great deal to possess. His own early manhood had been frittered away in futile dissipations and he resented bitterly the contrast between himself and Lindsay that must continually be present in the mind of the girl who had promised to marry him. He had many adventitious things to offer her—such advantages as modern civilization has made desirable to hothouse women—but he could not give the clean, splendid youth she craved. It was the price he had paid for many sybaritic pleasures he had been too soft to deny himself.
With only a little more than two weeks of freedom before her, Beatrice made the most of her days. For the first time in her life she became a creature of moods. The dominant ones were rebellion, recklessness, and repentance. While Bromfield waited and fumed she rode and tramped with Clay. It was not fair to her affianced lover. She knew that. But there were times when she wanted to shriek as dressmakers and costumers fussed over her and wore out her jangled nerves with multitudinous details. The same hysteria welled up in her occasionally at the luncheons and dinners that were being given in honor of her approaching marriage.
It was not logical, of course. She was moving toward the destiny she had chosen for herself. But there was an instinct in her, savage and primitive, to hurt Bromfield because she herself was suffering. In the privacy of her room she passed hours of tearful regret for these bursts of fierce insurrection.
Ten days before the wedding Beatrice wounded his vanity flagrantly. Clarendon was giving an informal tea for her at his rooms. Half an hour before the time set, Beatrice got him on the wire and explained that her car was stalled with engine trouble two miles from Yonkers.
"I'm awf'ly sorry, Clary," she pleaded. "We ought not to have come so far. Please tell our friends I've been delayed, and—I won't do it again."
Bromfield hung up the receiver in a cold fury. He restrained himself for the moment, made the necessary explanations, and went through with the tea somehow. But as soon as his guests were gone he gave himself up to his anger. He began planning a revenge on the man who no doubt was laughing in his sleeve at him. He wanted the fellow exposed, discredited, and humiliated.
But how? Walking up and down his room like a caged panther, Bromfield remembered that Lindsay had other enemies in New York, powerful ones who would be eager to cooperate with him in bringing about the man's downfall. Was it possible for him to work with them under cover? If so, in what way?
Clarendon Bromfield was not a criminal, but a conventional member of society. It was not in his mind or in his character to plot the murder or mayhem of his rival. What he wanted was a public disgrace, one that would blare his name out to the newspapers as a law-breaker. He wanted to sicken Beatrice and her father of their strange infatuation for Lindsay.
A plan began to unfold itself to him. It was one which called for expert assistance. He looked up Jerry Durand, got him on the telephone, and made an appointment to meet him secretly.