"There ain't enough coin west of the
Rockies to buy that gun. D'you think I'm yaller hound enough to sell
my six? No, but I'll risk it in a fair bet. There ain't no disgrace
in that; eh, pals?"

There was a chorus of low grunts of assent.

"All right," said Pierre. "That pile against the gun."

"All of it?"

"All."

"Look here, kid, if you're tryin' to play a charity game with me--"

"Charity?"

The direct, frank surprise of that look disarmed the other. He swept
up the dice-box, and shook it furiously, while his lips stirred. It
was as if he murmured an incantation for success. The dice rolled out,
winking in the light, spun over, and the owner of the gun stood with
both hands braced against the edge of the table, and stared hopelessly
down.

A moment before his pockets had sagged with a precious weight, and
there had been a significant drag of the belt over his right hip. Now
both burdens were gone.

He looked up with a short laugh.

"I'm dry. Who'll stake me to a drink?"

Pierre scooped up a dozen pieces of the gold.

"Here."

The other drew back.

"You're very welcome to it. Here's more, if you'll have it."

"The coin I've lost to you? Take back a gamblin' debt?"

"Easy there," said one of the men. "Don't you see the kid's green?
Here's a five-spot."

The loser accepted the coin as carelessly as if he were conferring a
favor by taking it, cast another scowl in the direction of Pierre, and
went out toward the bar. Pierre, very 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 the fine-cut 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