"Well, he's got his this time," the policeman said. "Skull smashed."

Clay's heart sank. In that noise of struggling men and crashing
furniture very likely the sound of the shots had been muffled. The
revolver gone, false testimony against him, proof that he had
threatened Collins available, Clay knew that he was in desperate
straits.

"There was another guy here with him in them glad rags," volunteered
one of the gamblers captured in the raid.

"Who was he?" asked the plain-clothes man of his prisoner.

Clay was silent. He was thinking rapidly. His enemies had him trapped
at last with the help of circumstance, Why bring Bromfield into it? It
would mean trouble and worry for Beatrice.

"Better speak up, young fellow, me lad," advised the detective. "It
won't help you any to be sulky. You're up against the electric chair
sure."

The Arizonan looked at him with the level, unafraid eyes of the hills.

"I reckon I'll not talk till I'm ready," he said in his slow drawl.

The handcuffs clicked on his wrists.