The Big-Town Round-Up | Page 8

. . the time of your young life, honey."
The girl was crumbling a bread ball with her fingers as a vent to her
restless excitement. The heavy hand of the man moved across the table
and rested on hers. "And it won't cost you a cent, girlie," the New
Yorker added.
But the long lashes of the girl lifted and her baby-blue eyes met his
with shy reproach. "I don't think I ought," she breathed, color sweeping
her face in a vivid flame.
"You should worry," he scoffed.
The chant of the wheels rose again, increased to a dull roar, and
deadened the sound of all talk. But Lindsay knew the girl was
weakening. She was no match for this big, dominant, two-fisted man.
The jaw of the cowpuncher set. This child was not fair game for a man
like Durand. When Clay rose to leave the diner he knew that he meant
to sit in and take a hand.

Either the Limited was ahead of its time schedule or the engineer had
orders to run into the city very slowly. The train was creeping through
the thickly settled quarter where the poorer people are herded when
Clay touched Durand on the shoulder.
"Like to see you a moment in the vestibule," he said in his gentle voice.
The eyes of the two men met and the gambler knew at once that this
man and he were destined to be enemies. Some sixth sense of safety,
cultivated by a lifetime of battle, flashed him sure warning of this. The
fellow meant to make trouble of some kind. The former near-champion
of the ring had not the least idea what about or in what way. Nor did he
greatly care. He had supreme confidence in his ability to look after
himself. It was one factor of the stock in trade that had made him a
dominant figure in the underworld of New York. He was vain enough
to think that if it came to the worst there were few men living who
could best him in a rough-and-tumble fight. Certainly no hill-billy from
Arizona could do it.
No man had ever said that Jerry Durand was not game. He rose
promptly and followed the Westerner from the car, swinging along
with the light, catlike tread acquired by many pugilists.
The floor of the vestibule had been raised and the outer door of the car
opened. Durand found time to wonder why.
The cowpuncher turned on him with an abrupt question. "Can you
swim?"
The eyes of the ward boss narrowed. "What's that to you?" he
demanded truculently.
"Nothin' to me, but a good deal to you. I'm aimin' to drop you in the
river when we cross."
"Is that so?" snarled Durand. "You're quite a joker, ain't you? Well, you
can't start somethin' too soon to suit me. But let's get this clear so we'll
know where we're at. What's ailin' you, rube?"

"I don't like the color of yore hair or the cut of yore clothes," drawled
Lindsay. "You've got a sure-enough bad eye, and I'm tired of travelin'
in yore company. Let's get off, me or you one."
In the slitted eyes of the Bowery graduate there was no heat at all. They
were bleak as a heavy winter morn. "Suits me fine. You'll not travel
with me much farther. Here's where you beat the place."
The professional lashed out suddenly with his left. But Clay was not at
the receiving end of the blow. Always quick as chain lightning, he had
ducked and clinched. His steel-muscled arms tightened about the waist
of the other. A short-arm jolt to the cheek he disregarded.
Before Durand had set himself to meet the plunge he found himself
flying through space. The gambler caught at the rail, missed it, landed
on the cinders beside the roadbed, was flung instantly from his feet, and
rolled over and over down an incline to a muddy gully.
Clay, hanging to the brass railing, leaned out and looked back. Durand
had staggered to his feet, plastered with mud from head to knees, and
was shaking furiously a fist at him. The face of the man was venomous
with rage.
The cowpuncher waved a debonair hand and mounted the steps again.
The porter was standing in the vestibule looking at him with
amazement.
"You throwed a man off'n this train, mistah," he charged.
"So I did," admitted Clay, and to save his life he could not keep from
smiling.
The porter sputtered. This beat anything in his previous experience.
"But--but--it ain't allowed to open up the cah. Was you-all havin'
trouble?"
"No trouble a-tall. He bet me a cigar I couldn't put him off."

Clay palmed a dollar and handed it to the porter as he passed into the