The chant of the wheels rose again, increased to a dull roar, and
deadened the sound of all talk. But Lindsay knew the girl was
weakening. She was no match for this big, dominant, two-fisted man.

The jaw of the cowpuncher set. This child was not fair game for a man
like Durand. When Clay rose to leave the diner he knew that he meant
to sit in and take a hand.

Either the Limited was ahead of its time schedule or the engineer had
orders to run into the city very slowly. The train was creeping
through the thickly settled quarter where the poorer people are herded
when Clay touched Durand on the shoulder.

"Like to see you a moment in the vestibule," he said in his gentle
voice.

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,