Before any one else could move or speak, Lindsay's gun was out.
"Easy now." His voice was a gentle drawl that carried a menace. "Lemme be boss of the rodeo a while. No, Gorilla, I wouldn't play with that club if I was you. I'm sure hell-a-mile on this gun stuff. Drop it!" The last two words came sharp and crisp, for the big thug had telegraphed an unintentional warning of his purpose to dive at the man behind the thirty-eight.
Gorilla Dave was thick-headed, but he was open to persuasion. Eyes hard as diamonds bored into his, searched him, dominated him. The barrel of the revolver did not waver a hair-breadth. His fingers opened and the blackjack dropped from his hand to the floor.
"For the love o' Mike, who is this guy?" demanded one of the other men.
"I'm the fifth member of our little party," explained Clay.
"Wot t'ell do youse mean? And what's the big idea in most killin' the chief?"
The man who had been flung across the table turned over and groaned.
Clay would have known that face among a thousand. It belonged to Jerry
Durand.
"I came in at the wrong door and without announcin' myself," said the cattleman, almost lazily, the unhurried indolence of his manner not shaken. "You see I wanted to be on time so as not to keep you waitin'. I'm Clay Lindsay."
The more talkative of the gunmen from the East Side flashed one look at the two automatics lying on the floor beside the overturned table. They might as well have been in Brazil for all the good they were to him.
"For the love o' Mike," he repeated again helplessly. "You're the—the—"