THE REGISTER

“Mr. Pooley,” said Racey Dawson, easing himself into the chair beside the register’s desk, “where is McFluke?”

Mr. Pooley’s features remained as wooden as they were fat.  His small, wide-set eyes did not flicker.  He placed the tips of his fingers together, leaned back in his chair, and stared at Racey between the eyebrows.

“McFluke?” he repeated.  “I don’t know the name.”

“I mean the murderer Jack Harpe sent to you to be taken care of,” explained Racey.

Mr. Pooley continued to stare.  For a long moment he made no comment.  Then he said, “Still, I don’t know the name.”

“If you will lean back a li’l more,” Racey told him, “you can look out of the window and see two chairs in front of the Kearney House.  On the right we have Bill Riley, a Wells Fargo detective from Omaha, on the left Tom Seemly from the Pinkerton Agency in San Francisco.  They know something but not everything.  Suppose I should spin ’em all my li’l tale of grief—­what then, Mr. Pooley?”

“Still—­I wouldn’t know the name McFluke,” maintained Mr. Pooley.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Pooley,” said Racey, rising to his feet.  “I shore am.”

“Don’t strain yoreself,” advised Mr. Pooley, making a brave rustle among the papers on his desk.

“I won’t,” Racey said, turning at the door to bestow a last! grin upon Mr. Pooley.  “So long.  Glad I called.”

Mr. Pooley laughed outright.  “G’by,” he called after Racey as the door closed.

Mr. Pooley leaned far back in his chair.  He saw Racey Dawson stop on the sidewalk in front of the two detectives.  The three conversed a moment, then Racey entered the Kearney House.  The two detectives remained where they were.

Mr. Pooley arose and left the room.

* * * * *

“You gotta get out of here!” It was Mr. Pooley speaking with great asperity.

“Why for?” countered our old friend McFluke, one-time proprietor of a saloon on the bank of the Lazy.

“Because they’re after you, that’s why.”

“Who’s they?”

“Racey Dawson for one.”

McFluke sat upright in the bunk.  “Him!  That ——!”

“Yes, him,” sneered Pooley.  “Scares you, don’t it?  And he’s got two detectives with him, so get a move on.  I don’t want you anywhere on my property if they do come sniffin’ round.”

“I’m right comfortable here,” declared McFluke, and lay down upon the bunk.

“You’d better go,” said Mr. Pooley, softly.

“Not unless I get some money first.”

“So that’s the game, is it?  Think I’ll pay you to drift, huh?  How much?”

“Oh, about ten thousand.”

“Is that all?”

“Well, say fifteen—­and not a check, neither.”

“No,” said Mr. Pooley, “it won’t be a check.  It won’t be anything, you—­worm.”

So saying Mr. Pooley laid violent hands on McFluke, yanked him out of the bunk, and flung him sprawling on the floor.