CHAPTER 11IT WAS CHARACTERISTIC of Clayton Daigle that he occupied the biggest room which the hotel had to offer. He was a man who had always taken the best things in life for himself with no regard for the rights or feelings of others.
He was writing letters this morning when he heard the boots move along the hall and the sharp knock on the room door, and he glanced first at the gun which hung from its belt over the back of a chair.
Then with a shrug he forgot it, calling sharply, “Come in.”
Tut Jackson came in. He was a tall man, lean and hard from much riding. His face and hands were deeply burned and his eyes were blue, looking faded and whitish against the darkness of his face. His clothes still bore the mud marks from the trail and he had not shaved in two weeks. He shut the door,
