pile it up.
Then I'll roll 'em. But I ain't a goin' to stand here and speculate in
my own money all night!"

So there they were, caught in a blind canyon when they thought they were
coming into the clear. That was an unlooked-for and unprepared-for turn
that Shanklin had given to their plans. Right when they had him
unsuspectingly loaded up so he could no more throw twenty-seven than he
could fly, except by the tremendously long chance that the good die
would fall right to make up the count, he sat down on his hind legs and
balked.

Slavens was at the end of his rope. There appeared nothing for it but to
withdraw the stake and sneak off with only half of his backer's loss of
the afternoon retrieved. He was reaching out his hand to pull the money
away, when the little fellow with whiskers caught his arm.

Slavens thought he read a signal in the touch, and turned as if to
consult his roll again. As he did so the little man thrust a comfortable
wad of bills into his hand, and Slavens faced the table, counting down
five one-hundred-dollar bills.

Hun Shanklin's eye was burning the backs of those aristocrats of the
currency as he lifted his box.

"That's more like it," he commended. "I can play with a _gentleman_ that
carries them things around with him all night, even if I lose at every
throw."

"Hold on!" said the doctor as Hun was tilting the box to throw. "Cover
that money before you throw. I've got six hundred dollars down there,
and I want you to count out three thousand by the side of it."

"Well, I've got the money, friend, if that's what you doubt," said
Shanklin, with a lofty air of the injured gentleman.

He drew a sheaf of bills from the valise and, in the stillness of awe
which had come over the crowd, counted down the required amount.

"I've won fortunes, gentlemen, and I've lost 'em," said Shanklin, taking
up the box again. "Keep your eye on the dice."

He was so certain of what would come out of the box that he reached for
the money before the dice had settled, ready to sweep it away. But a
change came over his face, as of sudden pain, when he saw the result of
the throw, and with a little dry snort his hand shot out toward the
revolver which lay beside his valise.

The little man with whiskers, admirably cool, got there first. Hun
Shanklin was looking into the end of his own gun, and unloading, through
the vent of his ugly, flat mouth, the accumulated venom of his life. He
was caught in his ow