ould not quite shut
out the irony, "an' who's goin' to--drive it through?"

"I am."

The storekeeper jumped and his eyes widened. He started forward. Then
he checked himself. He struggled with a sudden emotion.

"You?" he cried in a sharp whisper. "I--I don't get you."

The gambler leapt to his feet. He strode down the length of the hut
and came back again. He finally paused before his bewildered friend.

"No, o' course you don't," he cried hotly; "course you don't. Here,
how much 'dust' ken you ship?"

"Maybe we'd need to ship sixty thousand dollars' worth. That is, if we
rake around among the boys."

Minky watched his man closely as he spoke. He was still doubting, but
he was ready enough to be convinced. He knew it was no use asking too
many questions. Wild Bill hated questions. He watched the latter
plunge a hand into the inside pocket of his coat and draw out a book.
He had no difficulty in recognizing it as the gambler flung it on the
table with a force that set the lamp rattling.

"There it is," he cried, with a fierce oath. "Ther's my bank-book.
Ther's seventy odd thousand dollars lyin' in the Spawn City bank to my
dogasted credit. See?" He glared; then he drew a step nearer and bent
forward. "I'm handin' you a check fer your dust," he went on. "I've
seventy thousand dollars says I'm a better man than James an' all his
rotten scum, an' that I'm goin' to shoot him to hell before the week's
out. _Now_ d'ye get me?"

Minky gasped. He had always believed he had long since fathomed the
depths of his wild friend. He had always believed that the gambler had
no moods which were not well known to him. He had seen him under
almost every condition of stress. Yet here was a side to his character
he had never even dreamed of, and he was flabbergasted.

For a moment he had no words with which to adequately reply, and he
merely shook his head. Instantly the other flew into one of his savage
paroxysms by which it was so much his habit to carry through his
purpose when obstructed.

"You stand there shakin' your fool head like some mosey old cow," he
cried, with a ruddy flush suddenly mounting to his temples. "An'
you'll go on shakin' it till ther' ain't 'dust' enuff in your store to
bury a louse. You'll go on shakin' it till James' gun rips out your
vitals. Gee!" He threw his arms above his head appealing. "Give me a
man," he cried. Then he brought one fist crashing down upon the table
and shouted his final words: