e grips of his guns. And Bedloe saw that
Thornton carried a burning cigarette in his left hand, that his right,
with thumb caught in the band of his chaps, was careless only in the
seeming and that it, too, was alert and tense. And he remembered the
lighting quickness of that right hand.

"What do you want?"

No bluster, no threat, no fear, no hint of expression in the voice which
was as steady as Thornton's, with something in it akin to the steely
steadiness of the hard eyes.

They spoke slowly, with little pauses, little silences between. The man
whose chair had scraped looked uncomfortable; the muscles of his throat
contracted; his hand shut tight upon his cards, cracking the backs; then
he pushed back his chair again, swiftly, and got to his feet. His deep
breathing was audible when he stood to one side where, if there was to
be shooting, he would no longer be "in line." No one noticed him.

"I want a quiet talk," was Thornton's reply. "I'm not here to start
anything, Bedloe. Will you give me a chance to talk with you?"

Bedloe pondered the words, without distrust, without credence, merely
searching for what lay back of them. And finally he answered with a
brief question:

"Where?"

"Anywhere. In yonder," and Thornton's nod indicated the little room
partitioned off from the larger for a private poker room while his eyes
clung to Bedloe's. "Or outside. Anywhere."

Again the Kid pondered.

"I'm playin' poker," he said presently, very quietly. "An' I ain't
playin' for fun. There's one hell of a lot of money changin' han's this
deal, an'," with the first flash of defiance, and much significance to
words and look alike, "my luck's runnin' high today!"

"I'll wait until you play your hand," returned Thornton without
hesitation. "I'll step right over here."

As he spoke he moved, walking slowly with cautious feet feeling for an
obstacle over which he might stumble and so for just the one vital
fraction of a second give the Kid the chance to draw first, his eyes
upon the eyes which followed him. He stepped, so, about the table, to
the other side, so that Bedloe, once more sitting straight in his chair,
faced him over the jack pot.

The big blue eyed man didn't speak. It was his move and he knew it, knew
that all men there were looking at him. He studied Thornton's eyes as he
had never studied a man before, taking his time, cool, clear headed. He
could get his gun in a flash; he could throw himself to one side