Argosy, Vol. 111, No. 1 — page 23: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

LUCK. tighter. There ain’t a cylinder that spins easier. Shoot? Lad, even a kid like you could be a killer with that six-gun. will you lay ag’in’ it?” And his red-stained eyes glanced covet- ously at the yellow heap of Pierre’s money. ‘“‘How much?” said Pierre eagerly. “ Is there enough on the table to buy the gun?”’ “Buy?” said the other fiercely. ‘‘ 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 dis- grace in that; eh, pals?”’ There was a chorus of low grunts of assent. “All right,” said Pierre. against the gun.” ‘All of it?” ce 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 in- cantation 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. ‘“T’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. more, if you'll have it.” “The coin I’ve lost to. you? a gamblin’ debt?” ‘“‘ Easy there,” said one of the men. ‘*“ Don’t you see the kid’s green? MHere’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, What “That pile Here’s Take back 13 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,” re- marked a sarcastic voice. ‘ Say, kid, why don’t you try your luck with Mac Hur- ley? He’s almost through with poor, old Cochrane.” Following the direction of the pointing finger, Pierre saw one of those mute trag- edies 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 and deepening gloom. Once or twice he glanced up sharply as though reckoning his losses, though it seemed to Pierre le Rouge almost like an appeal. And what appeal could affect Mac Hur- ley? There was no color in the man, either body or soul. No emotion could show in those pale, small eyes or change the color of the flabby cheeks. If his hands had been cut off he might have seemed some sodden victim of a drug habit, but the hands saved him. They seemed to belong to another body— beautiful, swift, and strong, and grafted by some foul mischance onto this rotten hulk. Very white they were, and long, with a nervous uneasiness in every motion, con- tinually hovering around the cards with little touches which were almost caresses. ‘Tt ain’t a game,” said the man who had first pointed out the group to Pierre, “ it’s just a slaughter. Cochrane’s too far gone to see straight. Look at that deal now! A kid could see that he’s crooking the cards!”’ It was Blackjack, and Hurley, as usual, was dealing. He dealt with one hand, flip- ping the cards out with a snap of the wrist, Ccomicloool< CO