waiting for developments.

Bandy sat next Dud. "Raise you once," he snarled. His card-playing was
like everything else he did, offensive by reason of the spirit back of
it. He was a bad loser and a worse winner.

"And another blue," said Hollister easily when it came his turn again.
"Got to treat an ace in the hole with respect."

The other two players dropped out, leaving only Bandy to contest the pot
with Dud.

"Once more," retorted the bow-legged puncher, shoving in chips.

"And again."

"Hmp! Claim an ace in the hole, do you? Well, I'll jes' give it one more
li'l' kick."

Hollister had showing a deuce of hearts, a trey of clubs, an ace of
spades, and a four of hearts. He might have a five in the hole or an ace.
Bandy had a pair of jacks in sight.

Dud called.

"You see it," growled Bandy. "One pair."

His opponent flipped over an ace of diamonds. "One pair here--aces."

"Knew it all the time. Yore play gave it away," jeered Bandy with obvious
ill-temper.

"I reckon that's why you kept raisin'," Dud suggested, raking in the
pot.

"All I needed was to hook a jack or another pair to beat you."

"If I didn't catch another ace or a small pair."

The game was breaking up.

"Hell! I was playin' poker before you could navigate, young fellow,"
Bandy boasted. He had lost four dollars and was annoyed.

"An' you're still an optimist about hookin' another pair when you need
'em." Dud was counting his winnings placidly. "Six-fifty--seven--seven
and two bits. Wish I had yore confidence in the music of the spears
workin' out so harmonious."

This last was a reference to a book left at the ranch recently by the
Reverend Melancthon Browning, the title of which was, "The Music of the
Spheres." Its philosophy was that every man makes his own world by the
way he thinks about it.

Bandy jingled back to his bunk. He unstrapped his spurs, hooked one foot
behind the knee of the other leg, and tried to work the wet boot off. The
slippery leather stuck.

He called to Bob. "Come here, fellow, an' yank this boot off for me."

Dillon did not move. His heart stood still, then began to race. A choking
filled his throat. The hour was striking for him. It was to be now or
never.

The bow-legged puncher slewed his head. "I'm talkin' to you."

Slowly, reluctantly, Bob rose. He did not want to move. Something
stronger than his will lifted him out of the bed and dragged him across
the floor. He knew his hands were trembli