is, searched him, dominated him. The
barrel of the revolver did not waver a hair-breadth. His fingers
opened and the blackjack dropped from his hand to the floor.

"For the love o' Mike, who is this guy?" demanded one of the other men.

"I'm the fifth member of our little party," explained Clay.

"Wot t'ell do youse mean? And what's the big idea in most killin' the
chief?"

The man who had been flung across the table turned over and groaned.
Clay would have known that face among a thousand. It belonged to Jerry
Durand.

"I came in at the wrong door and without announcin' myself," said the
cattleman, almost lazily, the unhurried indolence of his manner not
shaken. "You see I wanted to be on time so as not to keep you waitin'.
I'm Clay Lindsay."

The more talkative of the gunmen from the East Side flashed one look at
the two automatics lying on the floor beside the overturned table.
They might as well have been in Brazil for all the good they were to
him.

"For the love o' Mike," he repeated again helplessly. "You're
the--the--"

"--the hick that was to have been framed for house-breaking. Yes, I'm
him," admitted Clay idiomatically. "How long had you figured I was to
get on the Island? Or was it yore intention to stop my clock for good?"

"Say, how did youse get into de house?" demanded big Dave.

"Move over to the other side of the room, Gorilla, and join yore two
friends," suggested the master of ceremonies. "And don't make any
mistake. If you do you won't have time to be sorry for it. I'll
ce'tainly shoot to kill."

The big-shouldered thug shuffled over. Clay stepped sideways, watching
the three gunmen every foot of the way, kicked the automatics into the
open, and took possession of them. He felt safer with the revolvers in
his coat pocket, for they had been within reach of Durand, and that
member of the party was showing signs of a return to active interest in
the proceedings.

"When I get you right I'll croak you. By God, I will," swore the gang
leader savagely, nursing his battered head. "No big stiff from the
bushes can run anything over on me."

"I believe you," retorted Clay easily. "That is, I believe you're
tellin' me yore intentions straight. There's no news in that to write
home about. But you'd better make that _if_ instead of _when_. This
is three cracks you've had at me and I'm still a right healthy rube."

"Don't bank on fool luck any more. I'll get you sure," cried