He rang the bell and waited, his
right hand on the pocket of his overcoat.
The door opened cautiously a few inches and a pair of close-set eyes in
a wrinkled face gimleted Clay.
"Whadya want?"
"The old man sent me with a message," answered the Arizonan promptly.
"Spill it."
"Are you alone?"
"You _know_ it."
"Got everything ready for the girl?"
"Say, who the hell are youse?"
"One of Slim's friends. Listen, we got the kid--picked her up at a
drug-store."
"I don' know watcher fairy tale's about. If you gotta message come
through with it."
Clay put his foot against the door to prevent it from being closed and
drew his hand from the overcoat pocket. In the hand nestled a
blue-nosed persuader.
Unless the eyes peering into the night were bad barometers of their
owner's inner state, he was in a panic of fear.
"Love o' Gawd, d-don't shoot!" he chattered. "I ain't nobody but the
caretaker."
He backed slowly away, followed by Lindsay. The barrel of the
thirty-eight held his eyes fascinated. By the light of his flash Clay
discovered the man to be a chalk-faced little inconsequent.
"Say, don't point that at me," the old fellow implored.
"Are you alone?"
"I told you I was."
"Is Jerry comin' himself with the others?"
"They don't none of them tell me nothin'. I'm nobody. I'm only Joey."
"Unload what you know. Quick. I'm in a hurry."
The man began a rambling, whining tale.
The Arizonan interrupted with questions, crisp and incisive.
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