id Levins.

Marchmont divined the truth now. He made his second mistake of the day. He
allowed a flash of rage to trick him into reaching for his pistol. He got
it into his hand and almost out of the pocket before Levins' first bullet
struck him, and before he could draw it entirely out the second savage
bark of the gun in Levins' hand shattered the stillness of the room.
Soundlessly, his face wreathed in a grin of hideous satire, Marchmont sank
to the floor and stretched out on his back.

Before his body was still, Levins had drawn out the bills that had reposed
in his victim's pocket. Crumpling them in his hand he walked to the bar
and tossed them to the barkeeper.

"Look at 'em," he directed. "I'm provin' they're mine. Good thing I got
the numbers on 'em." While the crowd jostled and crushed about him he read
the numbers from the paper Corrigan had given him, grinning coldly as the
barkeeper confirmed them. A deputy sheriff elbowed his way through the
press to Levins' side, and the gun-man spoke to him, lightly: "I reckon
everybody saw him reach for his gun when I told him to fork the coin
over," he said, indicating his victim. "So you ain't got nothin' on me.
But if you're figgerin' that the coin ain't mine, why I reckon a guy named
Corrigan will back up my play."

The deputy took him at his word. They found Corrigan at his desk in the
bank building.

"Sure," he said when the deputy had told his story; "I paid Levins the
money this morning. Is it necessary for you to know what for? No? Well, it
seems that the pickpocket got just what he deserved." He offered the
deputy a cigar, and the latter went out, satisfied.

Later, Corrigan looked appraisingly at Levins, who still graced the
office.

"That was rather an easy job," he said. "Marchmont was slow with a gun.
With a faster man--a man, say--" he appeared to meditate "--like Trevison,
for instance. You'd have to be pretty careful--"

"Trevison's my friend," grinned Levins coldly as he got to his feet.
"There's nothin' doin' there--understand? Get it out of your brain-box,
for if anything happens to 'Firebrand,' I'll perforate you sure as hell!"

He stalked out of the office, leaving Corrigan looking after him,
frowningly.

CHAPTER IX

STRAIGHT TALK

Ten years of lonesomeness, of separation from all the things he held dear,
with nothing for his soul to feed upon except the bitterness he got from a
contemplation of the past; with nothing but his