The Westerner tried the window. It was heavily barred outside. He turned to search for a door.
Brought up by the partition, Bromfield was whimpering with fear as he too groped for a way of escape. A pale moon shone through the window upon his evening clothes.
In the dim light Clay knew that tragedy impended. "Slim" Jim had his automatic out.
"I've got you good," the chauffeur snarled.
The gun cracked. Bromfield bleated in frenzied terror as Clay dashed forward. A chair swung round in a sweeping arc. As it descended the spitting of the gun slashed through the darkness a second time.
"Slim" Jim went down, rolled over, lay like a log.
Some one dived for Lindsay and drove him against the wall, pinning him by the waist. A second figure joined the first and caught the cattleman's wrist.
Then the lights flashed on again. Clay saw that the man who had flung him against the partition was Gorilla Dave. A plain-clothes man with a star had twisted his wrist and was clinging to it. Bromfield was nowhere to be seen, but an open door to the left showed that he had found at least a temporary escape.
A policeman came forward and stooped over the figure of the prostrate man.
"Some one's croaked a guy," he said.