"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.
Pages:
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50