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hot in the face, pocketed his

winnings and belted on the gun. It hung low on his thigh, just in easy

gripping distance of his hand, and he fingered the butt with a smile.

 

“The kid’s feelin’ most a man,” remarked a sarcastic voice. “Say, kid,

why don’t you try your luck with Mac Hurley? He’s almost through with

poor old Cochrane.”

 

Following the direction of the pointing finger, Pierre saw one of

those mute tragedies of the gambling hall. Cochrane, an old cattleman

whose carefully trimmed, pointed white beard and slender, tapering

fingers set him apart from the others in the room, was rather far gone

with liquor. He was still stiffly erect in his chair, and would be

till the very moment consciousness left him, but his eyes were misty,

and when he spoke his lips moved slowly, as though numbed by cold.

 

Beside him stood a tall, black bottle with a little whisky glass to

flank it. He made his bets with apparent carelessness, but with a real

and deepening gloom. Once or twice he glanced up sharply as though

reckoning his losses, though it seemed to Pierre le Rouge almost like

an appeal.

 

And what appeal could affect Mac Hurley? There was no color in the

man, either body or soul. No emotion could show in those pale, small

eyes or change the color of the flabby cheeks. If his hands had been

cut off, he might have seemed some sodden victim of a drug habit, but

the hands saved him.

 

They seemed to belong to another body—beautiful, swift, and strong,

and grafted by some foul mischance onto this rotten hulk. Very white

they were, and long, with a nervous uneasiness in every motion,

continually hovering around the cards with little touches which were

almost caresses.

 

“It ain’t a game,” said the man who had first pointed out the group to

Pierre, “it’s just a slaughter. Cochrane’s too far gone to see

straight. Look at that deal now! A kid could see that he’s crooking

the cards!”

 

It was blackjack, and Hurley, as usual, was dealing. He dealt with one

hand, flipping the cards out with a snap of the wrist, the fingers

working rapidly over the pack. Now and then he glanced over to the

crowd, as if to enjoy their admiration of his skill. He was showing it

now, not so much by the deftness of his cheating as by the openness

with which he exposed his tricks.

 

As the stranger remarked to Pierre, a child could have discovered that

the cards were being dealt at will from the top and the bottom of the

pack, but the gambler was enjoying himself by keeping his game just

open enough to be apparent to every other man in the room—just covert

enough to deceive the drink-misted brain of Cochrane. And the pale,

swinish eyes twinkled as they stared across the dull sorrow of the old

man. There was an ominous sound from Pierre: “Do you let a thing like

that happen in this country?” he asked fiercely.

 

The other turned to him with a sneer.

 

“Let it happen? Who’ll stop him? Say, partner, you ain’t meanin’ to

say that you don’t know who Hurley is?”

 

“I don’t need telling. I can see.”

 

“What you can’t see means a lot more than what you can. I’ve been in

the same room when Hurley worked his gun once. It wasn’t any killin’,

but it was the prettiest bit of cheatin’ I ever seen. But even if

Hurley wasn’t enough, what about Carl Diaz?”

 

He glared his triumph at Pierre, but the latter was too puzzled to

quail, and too stirred by the pale, gloomy face of Cochrane to turn

toward the other.

 

“What of Diaz?”

 

“Look here, boy. You’re a kid, all right, but you ain’t that young.

D’you mean to say that you ain’t heard of Carlos Diaz?”

 

It came back to Pierre then, for even into the snowbound seclusion of

the north country the shadow of the name of Diaz had gone. He could

not remember just what they were, but he seemed to recollect grim

tales through which that name figured.

 

The other went on: “But if you ain’t ever seen him before, look him

over now. They’s some says he’s faster on the draw than Bob McGurk,

but, of course, that’s stretchin’ him out a size too much. What’s the

matter, kid; you’ve met McGurk?”

 

“No, but I’m going to.”

 

“Might even be carried to him, eh—feet first?”

 

Pierre turned and laid a hand on the shoulder of the other.

 

“Don’t talk like that,” he said gently. “I don’t like it.”

 

The other reached up to snatch the hand from his shoulder, but he

stayed his arm.

 

He said after an uncomfortable moment of that silent staring: “Well,

partner, there ain’t a hell of a lot to get sore over, is there? You

don’t figure you’re a mate for McGurk, do you?”

 

He seemed oddly relieved when the eyes of Pierre moved away from him

and returned to the figure of Carlos Diaz. The Mexican was a perfect

model for a painting of a melodramatic villain. He had waxed and

twirled the end of his black mustache so that it thrust out a little

spur on either side of his long face. His habitual expression was a

scowl; his habitual position was with a cigarette in the fingers of

his left hand, and his right hand resting on his hip. He sat in a

chair directly behind that of Hurley, and Pierre’s new-found

acquaintance explained: “He’s the bodyguard for Hurley. Maybe there’s

some who could down Hurley in a straight gunfight; maybe there’s one

or two like McGurk that could down Diaz—damn his yellow hide—but

there ain’t no one can buck the two of ‘em. It ain’t in reason. So

they play the game together. Hurley works the cards and Diaz covers up

the retreat. Can’t beat that, can you?”

 

Pierre le Rouge slipped his left hand once more inside his shirt until

the fingers touched the cross.

 

“Nevertheless, that game has to stop.”

 

“Who’ll—say, kid, are you stringin’ me, or are you drunk? Look me in

the eye!”

CHAPTER 6

Pierre turned and looked calmly upon the other.

 

And the man whispered in a sort of awe: “Well, I’ll be damned!”

 

“Stand aside!”

 

The other fell back a pace, and Pierre went straight to the table and

said to Cochrane: “Sir, I have come to take you home.”

 

The old man looked up and rubbed his eyes as though waking from a

sleep.

 

“Stand back from the table!” warned Hurley.

 

“By the Lord, have they been missing me?” queried old Cochrane. “You

are waited for,” answered Pierre le Rouge, “and I’ve been sent to take

you home.”

 

“If that’s the case—”

 

“It ain’t the case. The kid’s lying.”

 

“Lying?” repeated Cochrane, as if he had never heard the word before,

and he peered with clearing eyes toward Pierre. “No, I think this boy

has never lied.”

 

Silence had spread through the place like a vapor. Even the slight

sounds in the gaming-room were done now, and one pair after another of

eyes swung toward the table of Cochrane and Hurley. The wave of the

silence reached to the barroom. No one could have carried the tidings

so soon, but the air was surcharged with the consciousness of an

impending crisis.

 

Half a dozen men started to make their way on tiptoe toward the back

room. One stood with his whisky glass suspended in midair, and tilted

back his head to listen. In the gaming-room Hurley pushed back his

chair and leaned to the left, giving him a free sweep for his right

hand. The Mexican smiled with a slow and deep content.

 

“Thank you,” answered Pierre, “but I am waiting still, sir.”

 

The left hand of Hurley played impatiently on the table.

 

He said: “Of course, if you have enough—”

 

“I—enough?” flared the old aristocrat.

 

Pierre le Rouge turned fairly upon Hurley.

 

“In the name of God,” he said calmly, “make an end of your game.

You’re playing for money, but I think this man is playing for his

eternal soul.”

 

The solemn, bookish phraseology came smoothly from his tongue. He knew

no other. It drew a murmur of amusement from the room and a snarl

from Hurley.

 

“Put on skirts, kid, and join the Salvation Army, but don’t get

yourself messed all up in here. This is my party, and I’m damned

particular who I invite! Now, run along!” The head of Pierre tilted

back, and he burst into laughter which troubled even Hurley.

 

The gambler blurted: “What’s happening to you, kid?”

 

“I’ve been making a lot of good resolutions, Mr. Hurley, about keeping

out of trouble; but here I am in it up to the neck.”

 

“No trouble as long as you keep your hand out of another man’s game,

kid.”

 

“That’s it. I can’t see you rob Mr. Cochrane like this. You aren’t

gambling—you’re digging gold. The game stops now.”

 

It was a moment before the crowd realized what was about to happen;

they saw it reflected first in the face of Hurley, which suddenly went

taut and pale, and then, even as they looked with a smile of curiosity

and derision toward Pierre le Rouge, they saw and understood.

 

For the moment Pierre said, “The game stops now,” the calm which had

been with him was gone. It was like the scent of blood to the starved

wolf. The last word was scarcely off his tongue when he was crouched

with a devil of green fury in his eyes—the light struck his hair into

a wave of flame—his face altered by a dozen ugly years.

 

“D’you mean?” whispered Hurley, as if he feared to break the silence

with his full voice.

 

“Get out of the room.”

 

And the impulse of Hurley, plainly enough, was to obey the order, and

go anywhere to escape from that relentless stare. His glance wavered

and flashed around the circle and then back to Red Pierre, for the

expectancy of the crowd forced him back.

 

When the leader of the pack springs and fails to kill, the rest of the

pack tear him to pieces. Remembering this, Mac Hurley forced his

glance back to Pierre. Moreover, there was a soft voice from behind,

and he remembered Diaz.

 

All this had taken place in the length of time that it takes a heavy

body to totter on the brink of a precipice or a cat to regain its feet

after a fall. After the voice of Diaz there was a sway through the

room, a pulse of silence, and then three hands shot for their

hips—Pierre, Diaz, and Hurley.

 

No stop-watch could have caught the differing lengths of time which

each required for the draw. The muzzle of Hurley’s revolver was not

clear of the holster—the gun of Diaz was nearly at the level when

Pierre’s weapon exploded at his hip. The bullet cut through the wrist

of Hurley. Never again would that slender, supple hand fly over the

cards, doing things other than they seemed. He made no effort to

escape from the next bullet, but stood looking down at his broken

wrist; horror for the moment gave him a dignity oddly out of place

with his usual appearance. He alone in all the room was moveless.

 

The crowd, undecided for an instant, broke for the doors at the first

shot; Pierre le Rouge pitched to the floor as Diaz leaped forward, the

revolver in either hand spitting lead and

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