CLAY LAYS DOWN THE LAW
Tim Muldoon, in his shirt-sleeves, was busy over a late breakfast when
his mother opened the door of the flat to let in Clay Lindsay.
The policeman took one look at the damaged face and forgot the plate of
ham and eggs that had just been put before him.
"Yuh've been at it again!" he cried, his Irish eyes lighting up with
anticipatory enjoyment.
"I had a little set-to with friend Jerry last night," the Westerner
explained.
"Another?"
"Now don't you blame me. I'm a peaceful citizen--not lookin' for
trouble a li'l' bit. But I don't aim to let this Durand comb my hair
with a rake."
"What's the trouble now?"
"You heard about the girl abducted in an auto from the Bronx?"
"Uh-huh! Was Jerry in that?"
"He was. I'll tell you the whole story, Tim."
"Meet my mother first. Mother--Mr. Lindsay. Yuh've heard me talk av
him."
Mrs. Muldoon's blue Irish eyes twinkled. She was a plump and ample
woman, and her handshake was firm and strong.
"I have that. Tim thinks yuh a wonder, Mr. Lindsay."
"Oh, he's prejudiced. You see he doesn't like the Big Mogul Jerry."
"Well, he's sure a booster for yuh."
Clay told the story of his encounter with Durand on the train and of
his subsequent meetings with him at the Sea Siren and on the night of
the poker party. He made elisions and emendations that removed the
bedroom scene from the tale.
"So that's when yuh met Annie Millikan," Tim said. "I was wonderin'
how yuh knew her."
"That's when I met her. She's one fine girl, Tim, a sure-enough
thoroughbred. She has fought against heavy odds all her life to keep
good and honest. And she's done it."
"She has that," agreed Mrs. Muldoon heartily. "Annie is a good girrl.
I always liked her."
"I'd bet my last chip on Annie. So last night I went straight to her.
She wouldn't throw down 'Slim' Jim, but she gave me an address. I went
there and met Durand."
"With his gang?" asked Tim.
"No; I waited till they had gone. I locked myself in a room alone with
him. He took eight shots at me in the dark and then we mixed."
"Mother o' Moses!" exclaimed the policeman. "In the dark?"
"No. I had switched the lights on."
"You bate him! I can see it in your eye!" cried Muldoon, pounding the
table so that the dishes jumped.
"You'll have to ask him about that." Clay passed to more important
facts. "When I reached home Kitty was there. They had dropped her in
the Park to make a safe getaway."
"That's good."
"But Tim--when Annie Millikan gave me the address where Jerry Durand
was, the driver of my taxi saw her. The man was 'Slim' Jim."
Muldoon sat up, a serious look on his face. "Man, yuh spilt the beans
that time. How'd you ever come to do it? They'll take it out on
Annie, the dogs." The eyes of the policeman blazed.
"Unless we stand by her."
"Sure, and we'll do that. But how?"
"First we've got to get her away from there to some decent place where
she'll be safe."
Mrs. Muldoon spoke up. "And that's easy. She'll just take our spare
bedroom and welcome."
Tim put an arm caressingly over his mother's shoulders. "Ain't she the
best little sport ever, Mr. Lindsay?" he said proudly.
Clay smiled. "She sure enough grades 'way up."
"It's blarney yuh're both talkin'," snorted Mrs. Muldoon. "Sure the
girrl needs a mother and a home. An' I don't doubt she'll pay her way."
"Then that's settled. Will you see Annie, Tim? Or shall I?"
"We'll both see her. But there's another thing. Will she be safe
here?"
"I'm goin' to have a talk with 'Slim' Jim and try to throw a scare into
him. I'll report to you what he says."
They took a trolley to the lodging-house where Annie lived.
The girl looked pale and tired. Clay guessed she slept little. The
memory of "Slim" Jim's snarling had stood out in the darkness at the
foot of her bed.
"Is this a pinch?" she asked Tim with a pert little tilt to her chin.
"Yuh can call it that, Annie. Mother wants yuh to come and stay with
us."
"And what would I do that for, Mr. Tim Muldoon?" she asked promptly,
the color flushing her cheeks.
"Because you're not safe here. That gang will make yuh pay somehow for
what yuh did."
"And if your mother took me in they'd make her pay. You'd maybe lose
your job."
"I'd find another. I'm thinkin' of quittin' anyhow."
"Say, whadya think I am? I'll not go. I can look out for myself."
"I don't think they'd get Tim," put in Clay. "I'm goin' to see Collins
and have a talk with him."
"You can't salve Jim with soft soap."
"Did I mention soft soap?"
"I heard some one most killed Jerry Durand last night," said Annie
abruptly, staring at Lindsay's bruised face. "Was it you?"
"Yes," said the Arizonan simply.
"Did you get the girl?"
"They dropped her to save themselves. My friend found her with a man
and took her from him."
"I hope you did up Jerry right!" cried Annie, a vindictive flash in her
dark eyes.
"I haven't called him up this mo'nin' to see how he's feelin'," said
Clay whimsically. "Miss Annie, we're worried some about you. Mrs.
Muldoon is right anxious for us to get you to come and stay awhile with
her. She's honin' to have a li'l' girl to mother. Don't you reckon
you can go?"
"I--I wish yuh'd come, Annie," blurted out Tim, looking down his nose.
Tears brimmed in Annie's eyes. To Clay it seemed there was something
hungry in the look the girl gave Muldoon. She did not want his pity
alone. She would not have their hospitality if they were giving it to
a girl they despised and wanted to reform.
"I'm an alley cat you're offerin' to take in and feed, Tim Muldoon,"
she charged suspiciously.
"Yuh're the girl--my mother loves." He choked on the impulsive avowal
he had almost made and finished the sentence awkwardly. It was
impossible for him to escape the natural male instinct to keep his
feelings out of words.
The girl's face softened. Inside, she was a river of tenderness
flowing toward the Irishman. "I'll go to your mother, Tim, if she
really wants me," she cried almost in a murmur.
"You're shoutin' now, Miss Annie," said Clay, smiling. "She sure wants
you. I'll hit the trail to have that talk with Jim Collins."
He found "Slim" Jim at his stand. That flashily dressed young crook
eyed him with a dogged and wary defiance. He had just come from a call
at the bedside of Jerry Durand and he felt a healthy respect for the
man who could do what this light-stepping young fellow had done to the
champion rough-houser of New York. The story Jerry had told was of an
assault from behind with a club, but this Collins did not accept at
par. There were too many bruises on his sides and cuts on his face to
be accounted for in any way except by a hard toe-to-toe fight.
"Mo'nin', Mr. Collins. I left you in a hurry last night and forgot to
pay my bill. What's the damage?" asked Clay in his gently ironic drawl.
"Slim" Jim growled something the meaning of which was drowned in an
oath.
"You say it was a free ride? Much obliged. That's sure fair enough,"
Clay went on easily. "Well, I didn't come to talk to you about that.
I've got other business with you this mo'nin'."
The chauffeur looked at him sullenly and silently.
"Suppose we get inside the cab where we can talk comfortably," Clay
proposed.
"Say, I'll stay right where I'm at," announced "Slim" Jim.
The cattleman opened the cab door. "Oh, no, we'll go inside," he said
softly.
The men looked at each other and battled. The eye is a more potent
weapon than the rapier. The shallow, shifty ones of the gunman fell
before the deep, steady ones of the Arizonan. "Slim" Jim, with a touch
of swagger to save his face, stepped into the cab and sat down. Clay
followed him, closing the door.
"Have you seen Jerry Durand this sunny mo'nin'?" asked Lindsay with
surface amiability.
"Wot's it to you?" demanded Collins.
"Not a thing. Nothin' a-tall," agreed Clay. "But it may be somethin'
to you. I'm kinda wonderin' whether I'll have to do to you what I did
to him."
"Slim" Jim was not a man of his hands. He could use a gun on occasion,
if the advantage was all in his favor, but he strictly declined
personal encounters at closer quarters. Now he reached for the door
hastily.
A strong, sinewy hand fell on his arm and tightened, slightly twisting
the flesh as the fingers sank deeper.
Collins let out a yell. "Gawd! Don't do that. You're killin' me."
"Beg yore pardon. An accident. If I get annoyed I'm liable to hurt
without meanin' to," apologized Clay suavely. "I'll come right down to
brass tacks, Mr. Collins. You're through with Annie Millikan.
Understand?"
"Say, wot t'ell's this stuff you're pipin'? Who d' you t'ink youse
are?"
"Never mind who I am. You'll keep away from Annie from now
on--absolutely. If you bother her--if anything happens to her--well,
you go and take a good long look at Durand before you make any
mistakes."
"You touch me an' I'll croak you. See!" hissed Collins. "It won't be
rough-house stuff with me. I'll fix youse so the gospel sharks'll sing
gather-at-the-river for you."
"A gun-play?" asked Clay pleasantly. "Say, there's a shootin'-gallery
round the corner. Come along. I wantta show you somethin'."
"Aw, go to hell!"
The sinewy hand moved again toward the aching muscles of the gunman.
Collins changed his mind hurriedly.
"All right. I'll come," he growled.
Clay tossed a dollar down on the counter, took a .32, and aimed at the
row of ducks sailing across the gallery pool. Each duck went down as
it appeared. He picked up a second rifle and knocked over seven or
eight mice as they scampered across the target screen. With a third
gun he snuffed the flaming eye from the right to the left side of the
face that grinned at him, then with another shot sent it back again.
He smashed a few clay pipes by way of variety. To finish off with he
scored six center shots in a target and rang a bell each time. Not one
single bullet had failed to reach its mark.
The New York gunman had never seen such speed and accuracy. He was
impressed in spite of the insolent sneer that still curled his lip.
"Got a six-shooter--a fohty-five?" asked Clay of the owner of the
gallery.
"No."
"Sorry. I'm not much with a rifle, but I'm a good average shot with a
six-gun. I kinda take to it natural."
They turned and walked back to the cab. Collins fell into the Bowery
strut.
"Tryin' to throw a scare into me," he argued feebly.
"Me? Oh, no. You mentioned soft music and the preacher. Mebbeso.
But it's liable to be for you if you monkey with the buzz-saw. I'm no
gun-sharp, but no man who can't empty a revolver in a shade better than
two seconds and put every bullet inside the rim of a cup at fifteen
yards wants to throw lead at me. You see, I hang up my hat in Arizona.
I grew up with a six-gun by my side."
"I should worry. This is little old New York, not Arizona," the
gangman answered.
"That's what yore boss Durand thought. What has it brought him but
trouble? Lemme give you something to chew on. New York's the biggest
city of the biggest, freest country on God's green footstool. You
little sewer rats pull wires and think you run it. Get wise, you poor
locoed gink. You run it about as much as that fly on the wheel of yore
taxi drives the engine. Durand's the whole works by his way of it, but
when some one calls his bluff see where he gets off."
"He ain't through with you yet," growled "Slim" Jim sulkily.
"Mebbe not, but you--you're through with Annie." Clay caught him by
the shoulder and swung him round. His eyes bored chilly into the other
man. "Don't you forget to remember not to forget that. Let her alone.
Don't go near her or play any tricks to hurt her. Lay off for good.
If you don't--well, you'll pay heavy. I'll be on the job personal to
collect."
Clay swung away and strode down the street, light-heeled and lithe, the
sap of vital youth in every rippling muscle.
"Slim" Jim watched him, snarling hatred. If ever he got a good chance
at him it would be curtains for the guy from Arizona, he swore savagely.