and then, sullenly, "I suppose you were in Kilkerry's last night."
"Yes; that's where we met."
"You took me out of there, eh?"
"No; another friend of yours took you out; I got you from him outside."
Russell considered this for a while; evidently he had no recollection of Hershy. "'Nother friend of mine; call yourself a friend of mine, do you?" he challenged.
"No," said Gregg, flatly.
"Who the hell are you? Say, have you got a drink about you?"
"No."
"How about water?"
"No."
"Where're we going?"
"West; the last town I noticed was Foseca; I suppose it's in Illinois or southern Wisconsin."
"Well, what's the big idea?"
"Mowbry's my name; I'm a friend of Charles Hale, whom you shot, and I'm more a friend of his daughter."
"Oh."
"There's no use my wasting time telling you what you're trying to do; we both know it; and there's no use wasting time talking to you about it. I'm going to beat you up first."
Gregg stopped and stood as steadily as the swaying of the car allowed, while Russell stared at his face, stared down at his bulging pocket and stared up again. Russell, of course, did not yet understand.
So Gregg told him: "I'm going to beat you up, fair if I can; if you fight dirty—I suppose you will—we'll have to go at that. I'm going to beat you up, I
