an' true. There ain't a butt in the world that hugs your hand tighter. There ain't a cylinder that spins easier. Shoot? Lad, even a kid like you could be a killer with that six-gun. What will you lay ag'in' it?"
And his red-stained eyes glanced covetously 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 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
