lthy." And Corrigan felt something hard and cold
against his shirt front. He knew it was a pistol and he released his hold
and stepped back.

"Speaking of coming clean," said Marchmont. "You crossed me. You told me
you were going to sell the Midland land to two big ranch-owners. I find
that you're going to cut it up into lots and make big money--loads of it.
You handed me a measly thousand. You stand to make millions. I want my
divvy."

"You've got your nerve," scoffed Corrigan. "You got your bit when you sold
the Midland before. You're a self-convicted crook, and if you make a peep
out here I'll send you over the road for a thousand years!"

"Another thousand now," said Marchmont: "and ten more when you commence to
cash in. Otherwise, a thousand years or not, I'll start yapping here and
queer your game."

Corrigan's lips were in an ugly pout. For an instant it seemed he was
going to defy his visitor. Then without a word to him he stepped around
the partition, walked out the door and entered the bank. A few minutes
later he passed a bundle of greenbacks to Marchmont and escorted him to
the front door, where he stood, watching, his face unpleasant, until
Marchmont vanished into one of the saloons.

"That settles _you_, you damned fool!" he said.

He stepped down into the street and went into the bank. Braman fawned on
him, smirking insincerely. Corrigan had not apologized for striking the
blow, had never mentioned it, continuing his former attitude toward the
banker as though nothing had happened. But Braman had not forgiven him.
Corrigan wasted no words:

"Who's the best gun-man in this section?"

Braman studied a minute. "Clay Levins," he said, finally.

"Can you find him?"

"Why, he's in town today; I saw him not more than fifteen minutes ago,
going into the _Elk_!"

"Find him and bring him here--by the back way," directed Corrigan.

Braman went out, wondering. A few minutes later he returned, coming in at
the front door, smiling with triumph. Shortly afterward Corrigan was
opening the rear door on a tall, slender man of thirty-five, with a thin
face, a mouth that drooped at the corners, and alert, furtive eyes. He
wore a heavy pistol at his right hip, low, the bottom of the holster tied
to the leather chaps, and as Corrigan closed the door he noted that the
man's right hand lingered close to the butt of the weapon.

"That's all right," said Corrigan; "you're perfectly safe here."

He talked in low to