. "And from the look of things Honeycutt is thanking his stars that I
did come."

"If you mean anything by that," shouted Brodie threateningly, "put a
name to it."

"If it's a fight you want," said King sharply, "I'm ready to take you
on, any time, and without a lot of palaver."

Old Honeycutt began sidling off toward the back door, neither of his two
visitors noticing him now as their eyes clashed.

"What I come for I'm going to have," announced Brodie. "It's mine,
anyhow, more than any other man's; I could prove it by law if I gave the
snap of a finger for what the law deals out, hit or miss. Was there a
King with Gus Ingle's crowd? Or a Honeycutt? No, but there was a Brodie!
And I'm his heir, by thunder. It's mine more'n any man's."

King laughed at him.

"Since when have you been studying law, Brodie? Since you got back this
last trip, figuring you might have a word with the sheriff?"

"Sheriff? What do you mean, sheriff?"

"I happened to see you and Andy Parker standing together on the cliffs.
I saw Andy go overboard. What is more, I had a talk with him before I
buried him."

Again Brodie's big mouth dropped open; his little blue eyes rounded, and
he put one hand at his throat nervously.

"Andy's a liar; always a liar," he said thickly. But he seemed annoyed.
Then his face cleared, and he too laughed, derision in his tone.
"Anyway, he's dead and can't lie no more, and your word against mine
ain't more'n an even break. So if your nosing sheriff gets gay with me
I'll twist his cursed neck for him."

"Suit yourself. I've told you already I came for a talk with Honeycutt
and not with you."

"Then you'll wait until I'm done with him," roared Brodie, all of his
first baffled rage sweeping back through his blood. "And now you'll
clear out!"

King stooped forward just a little, gathering himself and ready as he
saw Brodie crouch for a spring. It was just then that both remembered
old Honeycutt. For the old man, tottering in the opening of the rear
door, was muttering in a wicked sort of glee:

"Up with them hands of your'n, Swen Brodie. High up an' right quick, or
I'll blow your ugly head off'n your shoulders!"

In his trembling hands was a double-barrelled shotgun, sawed off and
doubtless loaded to the muzzle with buckshot. Though the thing wavered
considerably, its end was not six feet from Brodie's head, and both
hammers were back, while the ancient nervous fingers were playing as
with palsy about th