Doble leaned across the table and caught in his great fist the wrist of Steelman. His bloodshot eyes glared into those of the man opposite. "What girl?" he demanded hoarsely.
Steelman looked blandly innocent. "Didn't you know, Dug? Maybe I ought n't to 'a' mentioned it."
Fingers like ropes of steel tightened on the wrist, Brad screamed.
"Don't do that, Dug! You're killin' me! Ouch! Em Crawford's girl."
"What about her and Sanders?"
"Why, he's courtin' her—treatin' her to ice-cream, goin' walkin' with her. Didn't you know?"
"When did he begin?" Doble slammed a hamlike fist on the table. "Spit it out, or I'll tear yore arm off."
Steelman told all he knew and a good deal more. He invented details calculated to infuriate his confederate, to inflame his jealousy. The big man sat with jaw clamped, the muscles knotted like ropes on his leathery face. He was a volcano of outraged vanity and furious hate, seething with fires ready to erupt.
"Some folks say it's Hart she's engaged to," purred the hatchet-faced tempter. "Maybeso. Looks to me like she's throwin' down Hart for this convict. Expect she sees he's gonna be a big man some day."
"Big man! Who says so?" exploded Doble.