craft that was the most subtle force of his fighting heritage told him the farther he withdrew from them the harder it would be for them to coördinate action with intention.
Few people were on the street to witness the formation of this fighting triangle. Such as were abroad stopped in their tracks when they saw the hostile maneuvering, the wise ones dodging into the most convenient doors. The butcher, informed by a breathless customer of what was shaping up in the street, came to the door with his cleaver in his hand.
Across the street MacKinnon sat in his office reading a Kansas City paper brought over by the night operator when he went off duty, unconscious of Fate's busy writing before his very door what might turn out to be the last paragraph in Bill Dunham's brief, adventurous tale.
Nothing more was said by the weedy lank scoundrel who had pushed the unfounded quarrel to this ominous pass; not a word was uttered on either side. The argument in the case was finished; nothing was wanting but the decision, which must come in a hot streak very soon.
Dunham was prickling all over with a cold nervous thrill that maybe was nothing more noble than a savage exultation in the fight. There was no thought of danger in him, nothing but the clear, sharp calculation of chances, the keen watch for opportunity.
Give him the bulge, he kept telling himself, his main concern with the thinner man. He was the dangerous one, he was the surer one, but keep within the law; give him the bulge.
