"It's your cell pal I've come to take a look at--the one who's goin' to
the chair."
With one lithe movement Clay swung down to the floor. He sauntered
forward to the grating, his level gaze full on the ward boss.
"Shiny, this fellow's rotten," he said evenly and impersonally. "He's
not only a crook, but he's a crooked crook. He'd throw down his own
brother if it paid him."
Durand's cruel lips laughed. "Your pal's a little worried this
mornin', Shiny. He ain't slept much. You see the bulls got him right.
It's the death chair for him and no lifeboat in sight."
Clay leaned against the bars negligently. He spoke with a touch of
lazy scorn. "See those scars on his face, Shiny--the one on the cheek
bone and the other above the eye. Ask him where he got 'em and how."
Jerry cursed. He broke into a storm of threats, anger sweeping over
him in furious gusts. He had come to make sport of his victim and
Lindsay somehow took the upper hand at once. He had this fellow where
he wanted him at last. Yet the man's soft voice still carried the note
of easy contempt. If the Arizonan was afraid, he gave no least sign of
it.
"You'll sing another tune before I'm through with you," the
prize-fighter prophesied savagely.
The Westerner turned away and swung back to his upper berth. He knew,
what he had before suspected, that Durand was going to "frame" him if
he could. That information gained, the man no longer interested him.
Sullenly Jerry left.
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