hopelessness of either getting quickly through that crowd or of
making myself heard, and leaned back, clutching the rail with both
hands. Johnny was hesitating, his hand hovering uncertainly above the
marked squares of the layout, in doubt exactly where to bet. Scar-face
Charley shouldered his way through the loungers and reached the clear
space immediately behind his unconscious victim. He stopped for an
instant, squared his shoulders, and took one step forward. Johnny
dropped his chips on the felt layout, contemplated his choice an
instant--and suddenly whirled on his heel in a lightning about-face.

Although momentarily startled by this unexpected evidence that Johnny
was not so far off guard as he had seemed, the desperado's hand dropped
swiftly to the butt of his pistol. At the same instant Johnny's arm
snapped forward in the familiar motion of drawing from the sleeve. The
motion started clean and smooth, but half through, caught, dragged,
halted. I gasped aloud, but had time for no more than that; Scar-face
Charley's revolver was already on the leap. Then at last Johnny's
derringer appeared, apparently as the result of a desperate effort.
Almost with the motion, it barked, and the big man whirled to the floor,
his pistol, already at half raise, clattering away. The whole episode
from the beginning occupied the space of two eye-winks. Probably no one
but myself and Danny Randall could have caught the slight hitch in
Johnny's draw; and indeed I doubt if anybody saw whence he had snatched
the derringer.

A complete silence fell. It could have lasted only an instant; but
Johnny seized that instant.

"Has this man any friends here?" he asked clearly.

His head was back, and his snapping black eyes seemed to see everywhere
at once.

No one answered or stirred. Johnny held them for perhaps ten seconds,
then deliberately turned back to the table.

"That's my bet on the _even_," said he. "Let her roll!"

The gambler lifted his face, white in the brilliant illumination
directly over his head, and I thought to catch a flicker of something
like admiration in his passionless eyes. Then with his left hand he spun
the wheel.

The soft, dull whir and tiny clicking of the ball as it rebounded from
the metal grooves struck across the tense stillness. As though this was
the releasing signal, a roar of activity burst forth. Men all talked at
once. The other tables and the bar were deserted, and everybody crowded
down toward