He beat with his knuckles on the front of the cab to attract the
attention of the driver. In the swishing rain, and close to the throb
of the engine, the chauffeur either did not or would not hear.
Lindsay opened the door and swung out on the running-board. "We're
goin' wrong. Stop the car!" he ordered.
The man at the wheel did not turn. He speeded up.
His fare wasted no time in remonstrances. A moment, and the chauffeur
threw on the brake sharply. His reason was a good one. The blue nose
of a revolver was jammed hard against his ribs. He had looked round
once to find out what it was prodding him. That was enough to convince
him he had better stop.
Under the brake the back wheels skidded and brought up against the
curb. Clay, hanging on by one hand, was flung hard to the sidewalk.
The cab teetered, regained its equilibrium, gathered impetus with a
snort, and leaped forward again.
As the cattleman clambered to his feet he caught one full view of the
chauffeur's triumphant, vindictive face. He had seen it before, at a
reception especially arranged for him by Jerry Durand one memorable
night. It belonged to the more talkative of the two gunmen he had
surprised at the pretended poker game. He knew, too, without being
told that this man and "Slim" Jim Collins were one and the same. The
memory of Annie's stricken face carried this conviction home to him.
The Arizonan picked up his revolver in time to see the car sweep around
the next corner and laughed ruefully at his own discomfiture.
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