"He's here!" gurgled the judge.
"Where?" Slike's voice was a terrible snarl.
"Here—up on the flat."
Slike promptly seized the judge by the throat. "Then you led him here. What are you trying to do—double-cross me?"
"No, no!" gulped the judge, pulling at the other's wrists. "I couldn't help it! He forced me to come!"
"Then you did lead him here, damn your soul! You white-livered cur, do you think I'm gonna hang on your account? What did you tell him? Answer me, damn you!"
To the accompaniment of a string of most ferocious oaths, Slike shook the judge as the terrier shakes the rat. The judge fought back as best he could. But he was no match for this man of violence. Tiring at last, Slike flung him on the floor and kicked him.
"I'd oughta stomp you to death!" he squalled. "What did you tell him?"
"Nothing! Nothing!" cried the judge. "He must have guessed it!"
Dan Slike laughed. It was a laugh to make you flinch away. The hair at the base of Billy Wingo's neck lifted like the hackles of a fighting dog.