Deadwood Dick tore open his shirt and exposed the brand of a horseshoe.
There it was, never to be effaced, the brand of a horseshoe that had seared itself into the living flesh.
The man at the desk started to rise, but could not do so; he was like one partly paralyzed and partly bereft of reason. He could only stare.
"Well, I see you recognize me now," said Dick.
"I deny it," was the gasped response. "You are a crazy man. You are a lunatic. Leave my office, or I will not be responsible for your life—"
"Hold! If you reach for a gun, or attempt to call assistance, it will signal your instant death, Red Rover. You and I have a little account to settle and we must have a chat."
"I tell you you are mistaken."
"I know that I am not. Let us not dwell upon that, but come right to the point. You cannot hope to make me doubt what I know to be a fact. Now, what vengeance do you suppose I will take upon you for this?"
"I tell you you are making a mis—"
"I made one mistake once with you, but will not make another. You left me for dead, but Providence was not done with me yet—nor with you."