"Wot's it to you?" demanded Collins.
"Not a thing. Nothin' a-tall," agreed Clay. "But it may be somethin' to you. I'm kinda wonderin' whether I'll have to do to you what I did to him."
"Slim" Jim was not a man of his hands. He could use a gun on occasion, if the advantage was all in his favor, but he strictly declined personal encounters at closer quarters. Now he reached for the door hastily.
A strong, sinewy hand fell on his arm and tightened, slightly twisting the flesh as the fingers sank deeper.
Collins let out a yell. "Gawd! Don't do that. You're killin' me."
"Beg yore pardon. An accident. If I get annoyed I'm liable to hurt without meanin' to," apologized Clay suavely. "I'll come right down to brass tacks, Mr. Collins. You're through with Annie Millikan. Understand?"
"Say, wot t'ell's this stuff you're pipin'? Who d' you t'ink youse are?"
"Never mind who I am. You'll keep away from Annie from now on—absolutely. If you bother her—if anything happens to her—well, you go and take a good long look at Durand before you make any mistakes."
"You touch me an' I'll croak you. See!" hissed Collins. "It won't be rough-house stuff with me. I'll fix youse so the gospel sharks'll sing gather-at-the-river for you."
"A gun-play?" asked Clay pleasantly. "Say, there's a shootin'-gallery round the corner. Come along. I wantta show you somethin'."