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Updated: June 9, 2025
I looked out and seen him standin' beside the track j'es' a-cussin' a blue streak. He's a sho-'nough bad actor, that Jerry Durand." Kitty marched straight to her section. The eyes of the girl flashed anger. "Please leave my seat, sir," she told Clay. The Arizonan rose at once. He knew that she knew. "I was intendin' to help you off with yore grips," he said.
So too did the pressure of his strong hand on her arm. She knew not only that he was a man to trust, but that so far as could be he would take her troubles on his broad shoulders. Tears brimmed over her soft eyes. The Arizonan ran her up to his floor in the automatic elevator. "I've got a friend from home stayin' with me. He's the best-hearted fellow you ever saw.
It was in his thought to hurl himself headlong on the man holding steadily the menacing revolver. "Don't you! I've got the dead wood on you," said the Arizonan, a trenchant saltness in his speech. "I'll shoot you down sure as hell's hot." The eyes of the men clashed, measuring each the other's strength of will. They were warily conscious even of the batting of an eyelid.
You can get your time." "Meanin' that you keep him on the job and let me go?" "That's it exactly. Long as he does his work well I'll not ask him to quit." A shadow darkened the doorway of the temporary office. The Arizonan stepped in with his easy, swinging stride, a lithe, straight-backed Hermes showing strength of character back of every movement. "I'm leaving to-day, Mr. Shields."
A wild heave unseated the Arizonan. They clinched, rolled over and bumped against the wall, Clay again on top. For a moment Durand got a thumb in his foe's eye and tried to gouge it out. Clay's fingers found the throat of the gang leader and tightened. Jerry struggled to free himself, catching at the sinewy wrist with both hands. He could not break the iron grip.
"Better speak up, young fellow, me lad," advised the detective. "It won't help you any to be sulky. You're up against the electric chair sure." The Arizonan looked at him with the level, unafraid eyes of the hills. "I reckon I'll not talk till I'm ready," he said in his slow drawl. The handcuffs clicked on his wrists. Colin Whitford came into the room carrying a morning paper.
He butted with head and knee, used every foul trick he had learned in his rotten trade of prize-fighting. Active as a wild cat, the Arizonan side-stepped, scored a left on the eye, ducked again, and fought back the furious attack. The gangman came out of the rally winded, perplexed, and disturbed. His cheek was bleeding, one eye was in distress, and he had hardly touched his agile opponent.
Colin Whitford had been telling Clay the story of how a young cowpuncher had snatched Beatrice from under the hoofs of a charging steer. His daughter and the Arizonan listened without comment. "I've always thought I'd like to explain to that young man I didn't mean to insult him by offering money for saving Bee. But you see he didn't give me any chance.
Those he had met were mostly ambitious reformers. Furthermore, any stranger who mentioned the name of the Arizonan became instantly an object of suspicion. "What about him?" "I understand that you and he are not on friendly terms. I've gathered that from what's been told me. Am I correct?" Durand thrust out his salient chin. "Say! Who the hell are you? What's eatin' you? Whatta you want?"
Clearly he was reviewing in his mind the progression of his triumph. Clay restrained a good, healthy impulse to pick a row with him and go to the mat with the ex-prize-fighter. But after all it was none of his business. The train was rolling through the cornfields of the Middle West when the Arizonan awoke. He was up early, but not long before Kitty Mason, who was joined at once by Durand.
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