“Not one cent do you get from me,” declared Mr. Pooley.  “I never paid blackmail yet and I ain’t beginning now.  I always told Harpe you’d upset the applecart with yo’re bullheaded ways.  You stinking murderer, it wasn’t necessary to kill Old Man Dale!  Suppose he did hit you, what of it?  You could have knocked him out with a bungstarter.  But no, you had to kill him, and get everybody suspicious, didn’t you?  Why—­you, you make me feel like cutting your throat, to have you upset my plans this way!”

McFluke raised himself on an arm.  “I didn’t upset yore plans none,” he denied, sulkily.  “Everythin’s comin’ out all right.  Hell, he wouldn’t play that day, anyway!  Said he’d never touch a card or look at a wheel again as long as he lived, and when I laughed at him he hit me.  Whatell else could I do?  I hadda shoot him.  I—­”

“Shut up, you and your ‘I’s’ and ‘He wouldn’t’ and ‘I hadda!’ If you’ve told me that tale once since you came here you’ve told me forty times.  Get up and get out!  Yore horse is tied at the corral gate.  I roped him on my way in.  C’mon!  Get up! or will I have to crawl yore hump again?”

But McFluke did not get up.  Instead he scrabbled sidewise to the wall and shrank against it.  His eyes were wide, staring.  They were fixed on the doorway behind Mr. Pooley.

“I didn’t do it, gents!” cried McFluke, thrusting out his hands before his face as though to ward off a blow.  “I didn’t kill him!  I didn’t!  It’s all a lie!  I didn’t kill him!”

Fat Jacob Pooley whirled to face three guns.  His right hand fell away reluctantly from the butt of his sixshooter.  Slowly his arms went above his head.  Racey Dawson and his two companions entered the room.  The eldest of these companions was one of the Piegan City town marshals.  He was a friend of Jacob Pooley’s.  But there was no friendliness in his face as he approached the register, removed his gun, and searched his person for other weapons.  Jacob Pooley said nothing.  His face was a dark red.  The marshal produced a pair of handcuffs.  The register recoiled.

“Not those!” he protested.  “Don’t put handcuffs on me!”

“Put yore hands down,” ordered the marshal.

“Look here, I’ll go quietly.  I’ll—­”

“Put yore hands down!” repeated the inexorable marshal.

Jacob Pooley put his hands down.

Racey and the other man were handcuffing McFluke, who was keeping up an incessant wail of, “I didn’t do it!  I didn’t, gents, I didn’t!”

“Oh, shut up!” ordered Racey, jerking the prisoner to his feet.  “You talk too much.”

“Where’s yore Wells Fargo and Pinkerton detectives?” demanded Mr. Pooley.

“This gent is the Wells Fargo detective,” replied Racey, indicating the man who had helped him handcuff McFluke.  “There ain’t any Pinkerton within five hundred miles so far as I know....  Huh?  Them?  Oh, they were just drummers from Chicago I happened to speak to because I figured you’d be expectin’ me to after I’d told you who they were.  The real Wells Fargo, Mr. Johnson here, was a-watchin’ yore corral alla time, so when you got a friend of yores to pull them two drummers into a poker game and then saddled yore hoss and went bustin’ off in the direction of yore claim we got the marshal and trailed you.”