“Don’t you believe it! The girl will make him back Vallory, if she feels like it. I’m tellin’ you again--I got it straight. The minute Vallory hears she’s here, he makes a straight shoot for the hotel, and sits most o’ the evenin’ on the porch with her. I kep’ cases on ’em.” “That doesn’t prove anything.” “It proves what I’m sayin’. You’re goin’ to get the hook, Dargin, and I’m the one man that can keep it out o’ your liver.” Silas Plegg, from his cramped spying place on the gallery, saw a bleak smile flicker for a moment in the cold eyes of the master gambler. “You get your pay, don’t you, Simmy?” “For leggin’ for your skin game down-stairs, yes. But this time I’ve got somethin’ to sell--somethin’ that Grillage’ll pay for, if you don’t want it.” “Suppose you tell me what it is, Simmy.” “I’ll tell you this much: s’pose you could go to Grillage and say, ‘Look-ee here, old sport; I’m wise to somethin’ that’ll knock all the money out o’ this railroad job o’ yours, and then some; you keep this here Vallory hook out o’ me, and I’ll keep mine out o’ you.’ How does that hit you?” Again Plegg saw the vanishing smile. “Where did you get all this flim-flam dope, Simmy?” “Some of it I’ve had a good little spell. The rest of it I got to-night listenin’ under the windows of Vallory’s bunk car.” “Who was doing the talking?” “Three of ’em, first and last: young Altman and Vallory, and then Vallory and that gun-totin’ under-boss o’ his’n, Plegg.” “Supposing I say that I’m not in the market; then what?” The lop-shouldered man struggled up in his chair and spat his reply out viciously. “Then, by cripes, I’ll go to Grillage himself! _He’ll_ buy!” “I see,” said Dargin softly. “You’ll sell this thing to me or to Grillage, whichever one of us bids the highest. Is that it?” “You’re shoutin’ now. I’m tired o’ hidin’ out and dodgin’ Hank Bullock in these dam’ mountains. Some o’ these days he’s goin’ to hike up this-away and get the drop on me; and then”--the misshapen man made a gesture pantomiming the clicking of handcuffs upon wrists. “I want to skip down yonder to Honduras, ’r some o’ them places where they never heard o’ me ’r the croakin’ business in Gunnison. And you lissen to me, Jack; I’m goin’ to have a wad big enough to stake me when I get there, and don’t you forget it!” The swarthy giant on the opposite side of the table was still tilting his chair and still had his hands deeply buried in his pockets. “Let’s see if I’m getting it straight, Simmy,” he said gently. “You’ve thought it all out, and you’re going to sell this thing you’ve got hold of--and which you haven’t named for me yet--either to me or to the big boss. If I get it, I can make the hook miss; and if Grillage beats me to it--what happens then?” “Why, then Grillage plays safe on his profit by gettin’ me out o’ the country; see? And then, if Vallory wants to stick his fork into you----”