The doorbell rang. The promoter opened to a big, barrel-bodied man who
pushed past him into the room.

"What you want, Hull?" demanded Cunningham curtly.

The man thrust his bull neck forward. A heavy roll of fat swelled over
the collar. "You know damn well what I want. I want what's comin' to
me. My share of the Dry Valley clean-up. An' I'm gonna have it. See?"

"You've had every cent you'll get. I told you that before."

Tiny red capillaries seamed the beefy face of the fat man. "An' I told
you I was gonna have a divvy. An' I am. You can't throw down Cass
Hull an' get away with it. Not none." The shallow protuberant eyes
glittered threateningly.

"Thought you knew me better," Cunningham retorted contemptuously.
"When I say I won't, I won't. Go to a lawyer if you think you've got a
case. Don't come belly-aching to me."

The face of the fat man was apoplectic. "Like sin I'll go to a lawyer.
You'd like that fine, you double-crossin' sidewinder. I'll come with a
six-gun. That's how I'll come. An' soon. I'll give you two days to
come through. Two days. If you don't--hell sure enough will cough."

Whatever else could be said about Cunningham he was no coward. He met
the raving man eye to eye.

"I don't scare worth a cent, Hull. Get out. _Pronto_. And don't come
back unless you want me to turn you over to the police for a