Half an hour later, his damaged arm bandaged, and some marks of the battle removed, Trevison was in the banking room. He had forbidden any of his friends to accompany him, but Mullarky and several others stood outside the door and watched him.
A bandage around his head, Braman leaned on the counter behind the wire netting, pale, shaking. In a chair at the desk sat Corrigan, glowering at Trevison. The big man’s face had been attended to, but it was swollen frightfully, and his smashed lips were in a horrible pout. Trevison grinned at him, but it was to the banker that he spoke.
“I want my gun, Braman,” he said, shortly.
The banker took it out of a drawer and silently shoved it across the counter and through a little opening in the wire netting. The banker watched, fearingly, as Trevison shoved the weapon into its holster. Corrigan stolidly followed his movements.
The gun in its holster, Trevison leaned toward the banker.
“I always knew you weren’t straight, Braman. But we won’t quarrel about that now. I just want you to know that when this arm of mine is right again, we’ll try to square things between us. Broom handles will be barred that day.”
Braman was silent and uneasy as he watched Trevison reach into a pocket and withdraw a leather bill-book. From this he took a paper and tossed it in through the opening of the wire netting.
“Cash it,” he directed. “It’s about the matter we were discussing when we were interrupted by our bloodthirsty friend, there.”
He looked at Corrigan while Braman examined the paper, his eyes alight with the mocking, unfearing gleam that had been in them during the fight. Corrigan scowled and Trevison grinned at him—the indomitable, mirthless grin of the reckless fighting man; and Corrigan filled his lungs slowly, watching him with half-closed eyes. It was as though both knew that a distant day would bring another clash between them.
Braman fingered the paper uncertainly, and looked at Corrigan.