The goddess of chance, as false as the bandit's vanity, played with
him. He brightened under a streak of winning. But just as his face
began to lose its haggard shade, to glow, the tide again turned
against him. He lost and lost, and with each bag of gold-dust went
something of his spirit. And when he was reduced to his original
share he indeed showed that yellow streak which Jesse Smith had
attributed to him. The bandit's effort to pull himself together, to
be a man before that scornful gang, was pitiful and futile. He might
have been magnificent, confronted by other issues, of peril or
circumstance, but there he was craven. He was a man who should never
have gambled.
One after the other, in quick succession, he lost the two bags of
gold, his original share. He had lost utterly. Gulden had the great
heap of dirty little buckskin sacks, so significant of the hidden
power within.
Joan was amazed and sick at sight of Kells then, and if it had been
possible she would have withdrawn her gaze. But she was chained
there. The catastrophe was imminent.
Kells stared down at the gold. His jaw worked convulsively. He had
the eyes of a trapped wolf. Yet he seemed not wholly to comprehend
what had happened to him.
Gulden rose, slow, heavy, ponderous, to tower over his heap of gold.
Then this giant, who had never shown an emotion, suddenly, terribly
blazed.
"One more bet--a cut of the cards--my whole stake of gold!" he
boomed.
The bandits took a stride forward as one man, then stood breathless.
"One bet!" echoed Kells, aghast. "Against what?"
"AGAINST THE GIRL!"
Joan sank against the wall, a piercing torture in her breast. She
clutched the logs to keep from falling. So that was the impending
horror. She could not unrivet her eyes from the paralyzed Kells, yet
she seemed to see Jim Cleve leap straight up, and then stand,
equally motionless, with Kells.
"One cut of the cards--my gold against the girl!" boomed the giant.
Kells made a movement as if to go for his gun. But it failed. His
hand was a shaking leaf.
"You always bragged on your nerve!" went on Gulden, mercilessly.
"You're the gambler of the border! ... Come on."
Kells stood there, his doom upon him. Plain to all was his torture,
his weakness, his defeat. It seemed that with all his soul he
combated something, only to fail.
"ONE CUT--MY GOLD AGAINST YOUR GIRL!"
The gang burst into one concerted taunt. Like snarling, bristling
wolves they craned their necks at Kells.