Clay stepped softly from his place of refuge, but not so noiselessly that the gangman did not detect his presence. Jerry swung round in the chair and leaped up with cat-like activity. He stood without moving, poised on the balls of his feet, his deep-set eyes narrowed to shining slits. It was in his thought to hurl himself headlong on the man holding steadily the menacing revolver. "Don't you! I've got the dead wood on you," said the Arizonan, a trenchant saltness in his speech. "I'll shoot you down sure as hell's hot." The eyes of the men clashed, measuring each the other's strength of will. They were warily conscious even of the batting of an eyelid. Durand's face wore an ugly look of impotent malice, but his throat was dry as a lime kiln. He could not estimate the danger that confronted him nor what lay back of the man's presence. "What you doin' here?" he demanded. "Makin' my party call," retorted Clay easily. Jerry cursed him with a low, savage stream of profanity. The gangman enraged was not a sight pleasing to see. "I reckon heaven, hell, and high water couldn't keep you from cussin' now. Relieve yore mind proper, Mr. Durand. Then we'll talk business," murmured Clay in the low, easy drawl that never suggested weakness. The ex-prize-fighter's flow of language dried up. He fell silent and stood swallowing his furious rage. It had come home to him that this narrow-flanked young fellow with the close-gripped jaw and the cool, steady eyes was entirely unmoved by his threats. "Quite through effervescing?" asked Clay contemptuously. The gang leader made no answer. He chose to nurse his venom silently. "Where's Kitty Mason?" Still no answer. "I asked you what you've done with Kitty Mason?" "What's that to you?" "I'm close-herdin' that li'l' girl and I'll not have yore dirty hands touch her. Where is she?" "That's my business." "By God, you'll tell, or I'll tear it out of you!" Clay backed to the door, found the key, transferred it to the inner side of the lock, turned it, and put it in his pocket. The cornered gangman took a chance. He ducked for the shelter of the desk, tore open a drawer, and snatched out an automatic. Simultaneously the cowpuncher pressed the button beside the door and plunged the room in darkness. He side-stepped swiftly and without noise. A flash of lightning split the blackness. Clay dropped to his knees and crawled away. Another bolt, with its accompanying roar, flamed out. Still the Westerner did not fire in answer, though he knew just where the target for his bullet was. A plan had come to him. In the blackness of that room one might empty his revolver and not score a hit. To wait was to take a chance of being potted, but he did not want the death of even such a ruffian as Durand on his soul. The crash of the automatic and the rattle of glass filled the room. Jerry, blazing away at some fancied sound, had shattered the window.