“You’re raising bunions,” McCoppet assured him softly, throwing away his unsmoked cigar and putting a fresh one in his mouth.  “I’ll pay you what I agreed—­when I get the ready cash.”

“Think so, do you, Opal?” inquired the lumberman, eying his man in growing restlessness.  “I think different, savvy?  I’m onto you and your game with Lawrence—­you payin’ him twenty thousand bucks to fake the reservation.  I want ten thousand right away, in the next ten minutes, or you’d better pack your trunk.”

McCoppet, startled by the accusation, watched the savage manner in which the lumberman ate up the smoke of his weed.  He could think of one way only in which a man of Trimmer’s mentality could have come upon certain private facts.

“So,” he said presently, “you crawled in under this place, this floor, and caught it through the cracks.”

“Knot-hole,” said Trimmer gesturing, “that one over there.  And I tell you, Opal, I want that money now.  Do you hear?  I want it now!” He smashed his heavy fist upon the table, and off flew the ash of his cigar.

“What will you do if I refuse?” the gambler asked him coldly.  “Wait!  Hold on!  Don’t forget, my friend, that Culver’s murder is up to you, and I’ll give you up in a minute.”

The lumberman rose.  Every moment that passed increased the danger to them both.

“Look a-here, Opal,” he said in a threatening voice of anger, “I ain’t a-goin’ to fool with you no longer.  Hear me shout?  Culver’s up to you as much as me.  You stole the ‘Laughin’ Water’ claim.  There’s hell a-sizzlin’ down the street right now—­down to Lawrence’s.  If you don’t cough up ten thousand bucks pretty pronto——­”

“So, Larry—­so, you’ve split on me already,” the gambler interrupted, rising and narrowing his gaze upon the bloated face.  “You’ve peddled it maybe, and now you come to me——­”

“I ain’t peddled nuthin’!” Trimmer cut in angrily.  “I didn’t tell no one but Barger, and he ain’t no friend of Van Buren’s.  But Lawrence is caught.  Pratt run out the line, and now it’s me that stands between you and trouble, and I want the money to stand.”

McCoppet was far less calm than he appeared.  How much was already really known to the town was a matter wholly of conjecture.  And Trimmer’s haste to cash in thus and probably vanish excited his gravest suspicions.  He eyed his friend narrowly.

“Larry, we’ll wait and see how much you’ve maybe leaked.”

“No we won’t wait fer nuthin’!—­not fer nuthin’, understand?” corrected Trimmer aggressively.  “I ain’t a-trustin’ you, Opal, no more!  You done me up at every turn, and now, by God! you’re goin’ to come to terms!” He pulled an ugly, rusty gun, and thumped with its muzzle on the table.  “You’ll never leave this room alive if I don’t git the money.  Ring fer it, Opal, ring the bell, and order it in with the drinks!”

McCoppet would have temporized.  It was not so much the money now as the state of affairs in the street.  How much was known?—­and what was being done?  These were the questions in his mind.