g his abnormal
and hideous power, Duane had for the first time in his life the inward
quaking fear of a man. It was like a cold-tongued bell ringing within
him and numbing his heart. The old instinctive firing of blood followed,
but did not drive away that fear. He knew. He felt something here deeper
than thought could go. And he hated Poggin.

That individual had been considering Fletcher's appeal.

"Jim, I ante up," he said, "an' if Phil doesn't raise us out with a big
hand--why, he'll get called, an' your pard can set in the game."

Every eye shifted to Knell. He was dead white. He laughed, and any one
hearing that laugh would have realized his intense anger equally with an
assurance which made him master of the situation.

"Poggin, you're a gambler, you are--the ace-high, straight-flush hand of
the Big Bend," he said, with stinging scorn. "I'll bet you my roll to a
greaser peso that I can deal you a hand you'll be afraid to play."

"Phil, you're talkin' wild," growled Poggin, with both advice and menace
in his tone.

"If there's anythin' you hate it's a man who pretends to be somebody
else when he's not. Thet so?"

Poggin nodded in slow-gathering wrath.

"Well, Jim's new pard--this man Dodge--he's not who he seems. Oh-ho!
He's a hell of a lot different. But _I_ know him. An' when I spring
his name on you, Poggin, you'll freeze to your gizzard. Do you get
me? You'll freeze, an' your hand'll be stiff when it ought to be
lightnin'--All because you'll realize you've been standin' there five
minutes--five minutes ALIVE before him!"

If not hate, then assuredly great passion toward Poggin manifested
itself in Knell's scornful, fiery address, in the shaking hand he thrust
before Poggin's face. In the ensuing silent pause Knell's panting could
be plainly heard. The other men were pale, watchful, cautiously edging
either way to the wall, leaving the principals and Duane in the center
of the room.

"Spring his name, then, you--" said Poggin, violently, with a curse.

Strangely Knell did not even look at the man he was about to denounce.
He leaned toward Poggin, his hands, his body, his long head all somewhat
expressive of what his face disguised.

"BUCK DUANE!" he yelled, suddenly.

The name did not make any great difference in Poggin. But Knell's
passionate, swift utterance carried the suggestion that the name ought
to bring Poggin to quick action. It was possible, too, that Knell's
manner, the import of his