“He was aiming to kill me,” cried old Honeycutt, dragging and pulling at King’s sleeve.  “He was for doin’ for me—­like that!”

He pointed to the floor.  There lay a heavy iron poker bent double.

“He done it.  Brodie done it.  He was for doin’ me——­”

“You old fool, I’ll do you yet,” growled Brodie.  “And you, King, what are you after?”

Always truculent, to-day Brodie was plainly spoiling for trouble.  King had stepped in at a moment when Brodie was in no mood to brook any interruption or interference.

“I came for a word with Honeycutt, not with you,” King flashed back at him.  “And from the look of things Honeycutt is thanking his stars that I did come.”

“If you mean anything by that,” shouted Brodie threateningly, “put a name to it.”

“If it’s a fight you want,” said King sharply, “I’m ready to take you on, any time, and without a lot of palaver.”

Old Honeycutt began sidling off toward the back door, neither of his two visitors noticing him now as their eyes clashed.

“What I come for I’m going to have,” announced Brodie.  “It’s mine, anyhow, more than any other man’s; I could prove it by law if I gave the snap of a finger for what the law deals out, hit or miss.  Was there a King with Gus Ingle’s crowd?  Or a Honeycutt?  No, but there was a Brodie!  And I’m his heir, by thunder.  It’s mine more’n any man’s.”

King laughed at him.

“Since when have you been studying law, Brodie?  Since you got back this last trip, figuring you might have a word with the sheriff?”

“Sheriff?  What do you mean, sheriff?”

“I happened to see you and Andy Parker standing together on the cliffs.  I saw Andy go overboard.  What is more, I had a talk with him before I buried him.”

Again Brodie’s big mouth dropped open; his little blue eyes rounded, and he put one hand at his throat nervously.

“Andy’s a liar; always a liar,” he said thickly.  But he seemed annoyed.  Then his face cleared, and he too laughed, derision in his tone.  “Anyway, he’s dead and can’t lie no more, and your word against mine ain’t more’n an even break.  So if your nosing sheriff gets gay with me I’ll twist his cursed neck for him.”

“Suit yourself.  I’ve told you already I came for a talk with Honeycutt and not with you.”

“Then you’ll wait until I’m done with him,” roared Brodie, all of his first baffled rage sweeping back through his blood.  “And now you’ll clear out!”

King stooped forward just a little, gathering himself and ready as he saw Brodie crouch for a spring.  It was just then that both remembered old Honeycutt.  For the old man, tottering in the opening of the rear door, was muttering in a wicked sort of glee: 

“Up with them hands of your’n, Swen Brodie.  High up an’ right quick, or I’ll blow your ugly head off’n your shoulders!”

In his trembling hands was a double-barrelled shotgun, sawed off and doubtless loaded to the muzzle with buckshot.  Though the thing wavered considerably, its end was not six feet from Brodie’s head, and both hammers were back, while the ancient nervous fingers were playing as with palsy about the triggers.  King expected the discharge each second.