ront of the Kearney House. On the
right we have Bill Riley, a Wells Fargo detective from Omaha, on the
left Tom Seemly from the Pinkerton Agency in San Francisco. They know
something but not everything. Suppose I should spin 'em _all_ my
_li'l_ tale of grief--what then, Mr. Pooley?"

"Still--I wouldn't know the name McFluke," maintained Mr. Pooley.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Pooley," said Racey, rising to his feet. "I shore am."

"Don't strain yoreself," advised Mr. Pooley, making a brave rustle
among the papers on his desk.

"I won't," Racey said, turning at the door to bestow a last! grin upon
Mr. Pooley. "So long. Glad I called."

Mr. Pooley laughed outright. "G'by," he called after Racey as the door
closed.

Mr. Pooley leaned far back in his chair. He saw Racey Dawson stop on
the sidewalk in front of the two detectives. The three conversed a
moment, then Racey entered the Kearney House. The two detectives
remained where they were.

Mr. Pooley arose and left the room.

* * * * *

"You gotta get out of here!" It was Mr. Pooley speaking with great
asperity.

"Why for?" countered our old friend McFluke, one-time proprietor of a
saloon on the bank of the Lazy.

"Because they're after you, that's why."

"Who's they?"

"Racey Dawson for one."

McFluke sat upright in the bunk. "Him! That ----!"

"Yes, him," sneered Pooley. "Scares you, don't it? And he's got two
detectives with him, so get a move on. I don't want you anywhere on my
property if they do come sniffin' round."

"I'm right comfortable here," declared McFluke, and lay down upon the
bunk.

"You'd better go," said Mr. Pooley, softly.

"Not unless I get some money first."

"So that's the game, is it? Think I'll pay you to drift, huh? How
much?"

"Oh, about ten thousand."

"Is that all?"

"Well, say fifteen--and not a check, neither."

"No," said Mr. Pooley, "it won't be a check. It won't be anything,
you--worm."

So saying Mr. Pooley laid violent hands on McFluke, yanked him out of
the bunk, and flung him sprawling on the floor.

"Not one cent do you get from me," declared Mr. Pooley. "I never paid
blackmail yet and I ain't beginning now. I always told Harpe you'd
upset the applecart with yo're bullheaded ways. You stinking murderer,
it wasn't necessary to kill Old Man Dale! Suppose he did hit you, what
of it? You could have knocked him out with a bungstarter. But no, you
had to kill him, and get everybody sus