nger."

Beaton felt the steady eyes upon him, but was carrying enough liquor to
make him reckless. Still his was naturally the instinct of the New
York gunman, seeking for some adventure. He stepped backward, feigning
a laugh, watchful to catch Westcott off his guard.

"All right, then," he said, "I'll go get the drink; you can't bluff me."

Westcott's knowledge of the class alone brought to him the man's
purpose. Beaton's hand was in the pocket of his coat, and, as he
turned, apparently to leave the room, the cloth bulged. With one leap
forward the miner was at his throat. There was a report, a flash of
flame, the speeding bullet striking the stove, and the next instant
Beaton, his hand still helplessly imprisoned within the coat-pocket,
was hurled back across the card-table, the players scattering to get
out of the way. All the pent-up dislike in Westcott's heart found
expression in action; the despicable trick wrought him to a sudden
fury, yet even then there came to him no thought of killing the fellow,
no memory even of the loaded gun at his hip. He wanted to choke him,
strike him with his hands.

"You dirty coward," he muttered fiercely. "So you thought the pocket
trick was a new one out here, did you? Come, give the gun up! Oh! so
there is some fight left in you? Then let's settle it here."

It was a struggle between two big, strong men--the one desperate,
unscrupulous, brutal; the other angry enough, but retaining
self-control. They crashed onto the floor, Westcott still retaining
the advantage of position, and twice he struck, driving his clenched
fist home. Suddenly he became aware that some one had jerked his
revolver from its holster, and, almost at the same instant a hard hand
gripped the neck-band of his shirt and tore him loose from Beaton.

"Here, now--enough of that, Jim," said a voice sternly, and his hands
arose instinctively as he recognised the gleam of two drawn weapons
fronting him. "Help Beaton up, Joe. Now, look yere, Mr. Bully
Westcott," and the speaker shook his gun threateningly. "As it
happens, you have jumped on a friend o' ours, an' we naturally propose
to take a hand in this game--you know me!"

Westcott nodded, an unpleasant smile on his lips.

"I do, Lacy," he said coolly, "and that if there is any dirty work
going on in this camp, it is quite probable you and your gang are in
it. So, this New Yorker is a protege of yours?"

"That's none of your business; we'r