ing in tiny feverish strips.

"You pack yore gun under yore coat flap," said Sandy. "I don't know how
quick you can draw but I aim to find out."

He handed one of his own guns to Mormon, announcing his action lest
Plimsoll might mistake it.

"Now then," he went on, "I once told you I looked to you to stop any
gossip about Molly Casey. Same time Butch Parsons an' Sim Hahn got huht.
You don't seem able to sabe plain talk an' I'm tired of talkin' to you,
Jim Plimsoll. Me, I'm goin' to roll me a cigareet. Any time you want to
you can draw. I'm givin' you the aidge on me. If you don't take that
aidge, Jim Plimsoll, I'm givin' you till sun-up ter-morrer mornin' to
git plumb out of camp. An' to keep driftin'."

Deliberately Sandy took tobacco sack and papers from the pocket of his
shirt, his fingers functioning automatically, precisely, his eyes never
shifting from Plimsoll's face, measuring by feel the amount of tobacco
shaken into the little trough of brown paper. While he rolled the
cigarette the sack swung from his teeth by its string.

The group gazed at him fascinated. Plimsoll's face beaded with tiny
drops of sweat, his hands moved slowly upward toward his coat lapels,
touched them as Sandy twisted the end of the cigarette, stayed there,
shaking slightly with what might have been eagerness--or paralysis. For
the look in the steel gray eyes of Sandy Bourke, half mocking, all
confident, spurred the doubts that surged through the gambler's
chance-calculating mind, while he knew that every atom of hesitation
lessened his chances.

His own hands were close to his chest. His right had but a few inches
to dart, to drag the automatic from its smooth holster. Sandy's hands
were high above his belt, rolling the cigarette. They had four times as
far to go. But Plimsoll knew that if anything went wrong with his
performance, if he failed to kill outright, that nothing would go wrong
with Sandy's shooting. The mention of Butch and Sim Hahn did not compose
him. He had had the stage all set that time and Butch had been shot
down, Sim Hahn's capacities as a crooked dealer had been spoiled for
ever. But--if he did not take his chance and, failing it, did not leave
camp....

He felt cold. The temperature of his own conceit, the mercury of the
regard of his bullies, was falling steadily. The nervous sweat was no
longer confined to his face. The palms of his hands were moist,
slippery....

"Gimme a match, Sam." Sandy's voice came