The eyes of the two men met and the gambler knew at once that this man and he were destined to be enemies.  Some sixth sense of safety, cultivated by a lifetime of battle, flashed him sure warning of this.  The fellow meant to make trouble of some kind.  The former near-champion of the ring had not the least idea what about or in what way.  Nor did he greatly care.  He had supreme confidence in his ability to look after himself.  It was one factor of the stock in trade that had made him a dominant figure in the underworld of New York.  He was vain enough to think that if it came to the worst there were few men living who could best him in a rough-and-tumble fight.  Certainly no hill-billy from Arizona could do it.

No man had ever said that Jerry Durand was not game.  He rose promptly and followed the Westerner from the car, swinging along with the light, catlike tread acquired by many pugilists.

The floor of the vestibule had been raised and the outer door of the car opened.  Durand found time to wonder why.

The cowpuncher turned on him with an abrupt question.  “Can you swim?”

The eyes of the ward boss narrowed.  “What’s that to you?” he demanded truculently.

“Nothin’ to me, but a good deal to you.  I’m aimin’ to drop you in the river when we cross.”

“Is that so?” snarled Durand.  “You’re quite a joker, ain’t you?  Well, you can’t start somethin’ too soon to suit me.  But let’s get this clear so we’ll know where we’re at.  What’s ailin’ you, rube?”

“I don’t like the color of yore hair or the cut of yore clothes,” drawled Lindsay.  “You’ve got a sure-enough bad eye, and I’m tired of travelin’ in yore company.  Let’s get off, me or you one.”

In the slitted eyes of the Bowery graduate there was no heat at all.  They were bleak as a heavy winter morn.  “Suits me fine.  You’ll not travel with me much farther.  Here’s where you beat the place.”

The professional lashed out suddenly with his left.  But Clay was not at the receiving end of the blow.  Always quick as chain lightning, he had ducked and clinched.  His steel-muscled arms tightened about the waist of the other.  A short-arm jolt to the cheek he disregarded.

Before Durand had set himself to meet the plunge he found himself flying through space.  The gambler caught at the rail, missed it, landed on the cinders beside the roadbed, was flung instantly from his feet, and rolled over and over down an incline to a muddy gully.

Clay, hanging to the brass railing, leaned out and looked back.  Durand had staggered to his feet, plastered with mud from head to knees, and was shaking furiously a fist at him.  The face of the man was venomous with rage.

The cowpuncher waved a debonair hand and mounted the steps again.  The porter was standing in the vestibule looking at him with amazement.

“You throwed a man off’n this train, mistah,” he charged.