"
Bromfield made a hasty decision to get out. He started for the door.
Clay traveled in that direction too. They arrived simultaneously.
Clarendon backed away. The Arizonan locked the door and pocketed the
key.
His host grew weakly violent. From Whitford he had heard a story about
two men in a locked room that did not reassure him now. One of the men
had been this cattleman. The other--well, he had suffered. "Let me
out! I'll not stand this! You can't bully me!" he cried shrilly.
"Don't pull yore picket-pin, Bromfield," advised Lindsay. "I've
elected myself boss of the _rodeo_. What I say goes. You'll save
yorese'f a heap of worry if you make up yore mind to that right away."
"What do you want? What are you trying to do? I'm not a barroom
brawler like Durand. I don't intend to fight with you."
"You've ce'tainly relieved my mind," murmured Clay lazily. "What's
yore own notion of what I ought to do to you, Bromfield? You invited
me out as a friend and led me into a trap after you had fixed it up.
Wouldn't a first-class thrashin' with a hawsswhip be about right?"
Bromfield turned pale. "I've got a weak heart," he faltered.
"I'll say you have," agreed Clay. "It's pumpin' water in place of
blood right now, I'll bet. Did you ever have a real honest-to-God
lickin' when you was a boy?"
The New Yorker knew he was helpless before this clear-eyed, supple
athlete who walked like a god from Olympus. One can't lap up half a
dozen highballs a day for an indeterminate number of years, without
getting flabby, nor can he spend himself in feeble dissipations and
have reserves of strength to call upon when needed.
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