"Jim Marchmont!" said Corrigan. He stepped forward, threateningly, his face dark with wrath. Without speaking another word he seized the newcomer by the coat collar, snapping his head back savagely, and dragged him back of a wooden partition. Concealed there from any of the curious in the street, he jammed Marchmont against the wall of the building, held him there with one hand and stuck a huge fist into his face. "What in hell are you doing here?" he demanded. "Come clean, or I'll tear you apart!" The other laughed, but there was no mirth in it, and his thin lips were curved queerly, and were stiff and white. "Don't get excited, Jeff," he said; "it won't be healthy." And Corrigan felt something hard and cold against his shirt front. He knew it was a pistol and he released his hold and stepped back. "Speaking of coming clean," said Marchmont. "You crossed me. You told me you were going to sell the Midland land to two big ranch-owners. I find that you're going to cut it up into lots and make big money--loads of it. You handed me a measly thousand. You stand to make millions. I want my divvy." "You've got your nerve," scoffed Corrigan. "You got your bit when you sold the Midland before. You're a self-convicted crook, and if you make a peep out here I'll send you over the road for a thousand years!" "Another thousand now," said Marchmont: "and ten more when you commence to cash in. Otherwise, a thousand years or not, I'll start yapping here and queer your game." Corrigan's lips were in an ugly pout. For an instant it seemed he was going to defy his visitor. Then without a word to him he stepped around the partition, walked out the door and entered the bank. A few minutes later he passed a bundle of greenbacks to Marchmont and escorted him to the front door, where he stood, watching, his face unpleasant, until Marchmont vanished into one of the saloons. "That settles _you_, you damned fool!" he said. He stepped down into the street and went into the bank. Braman fawned on him, smirking insincerely. Corrigan had not apologized for striking the blow, had never mentioned it, continuing his former attitude toward the banker as though nothing had happened. But Braman had not forgiven him. Corrigan wasted no words: "Who's the best gun-man in this section?" Braman studied a minute. "Clay Levins," he said, finally. "Can you find him?" "Why, he's in town today; I saw him not more than fifteen minutes ago, going into the _Elk_!" "Find him and bring him here--by the back way," directed Corrigan.