"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 Durand
sourly.
The gorge of the Arizonan rose. "Mebbeso. You're a dirty dog, Jerry
Durand. From the beginning you were a rotten fighter--in the ring and
out of it. You and yore strong-arm men! Do you think I'm afraid of
you because you surround yoreself with dips and yeggmen and hop-nuts,
all scum of the gutter and filth of the earth? Where I come from men
fight clean and out in the open. They'd stomp you out like a
rattlesnake."
Clay moved back to the door and looked around from one to another, a
scorching contempt in his eyes. "Rats--that's what you are, vermin
that feed on offal. You haven't got an honest fight in you. All you
can do is skulk behind cover to take a man when he ain't lookin'."
He whipped open the door, stepped out, closed it, and took the key from
his pocket. A moment, and he had turned the lock.
From within there came a rush that shook the panels. Clay was already
busy searching for Kitty. He tore open door after door, calling her
loudly by name. Even in the darkness he could see that the rooms were
empty of furniture.
There was a crash of splintering panels, the sound of a bursting lock.
Almost as though it were an echo of it came a heavy pounding upon the
street door.
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