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