“Tear that bill down, Dutch,” he said crisply.
The bad man looked at him, then at McClintock.
Hugh laughed. “You hear yore master’s voice, Dutch.”
Dutch ripped the bill down and tore it into a dozen pieces. Released from the mastery that had held him, he broke into savage furious oaths. At a word from the black-eyed man he would have fought it out with his enemy.
But Ralph Dodson did not speak the word. His frowning attention was fixed on Hugh.
“Mr. McClintock, the Mammoth is owned by me and my brother. If we want bills on the walls we’ll put them there. Understand?” he demanded arrogantly.
Hugh bowed, almost as mockingly and as gracefully as Scot himself could have done it. “Quite. My fault, Mr. Dodson. I’ll explain. This knife was sheathed two nights ago in my arm. A scoundrel waited for me in a dark alley and tried to murder me.”
“Interesting, no doubt, but not my business,” retorted Dodson curtly.
“So I’m puttin’ up posters to find the owner of the knife.”
“Not here. You can’t put ’em up here.”