re have been a good many men killed in this room." The jaws of the
others dropped and they looked at him.

"What in hell are you talking about?" said Johnnie.

The Swede laughed again his blatant laugh, full of a kind of false
courage and defiance. "Oh, you know what I mean all right," he
answered.

"I'm a liar if I do!" Johnnie protested. The card was halted, and the
men stared at the Swede. Johnnie evidently felt that as the son of the
proprietor he should make a direct inquiry. "Now, what might you be
drivin' at, mister?" he asked. The Swede winked at him. It was a wink
full of cunning. His fingers shook on the edge of the board. "Oh,
maybe you think I have been to nowheres. Maybe you think I'm a
tenderfoot?"

"I don't know nothin' about you," answered Johnnie, "and I don't give
a damn where you've been. All I got to say is that I don't know what
you're driving at. There hain't never been nobody killed in this
room."

The cowboy, who had been steadily gazing at the Swede, then spoke:
"What's wrong with you, mister?"

Apparently it seemed to the Swede that he was formidably menaced. He
shivered and turned white near the corners of his mouth. He sent an
appealing glance in the direction of the little Easterner. During
these moments he did not forget to wear his air of advanced pot-valor.
"They say they don't know what I mean," he remarked mockingly to the
Easterner.

The latter answered after prolonged and cautious reflection. "I don't
understand you," he said, impassively.

The Swede made a movement then which announced that he thought he had
encountered treachery from the only quarter where he had expected
sympathy, if not help. "Oh, I see you are all against me. I see--"

The cowboy was in a state of deep stupefaction. "Say." he cried, as he
tumbled the deck violently down upon the board "--say, what are you
gittin' at, hey?"

The Swede sprang up with the celerity of a man escaping from a snake
on the floor. "I don't want to fight!" he shouted. "I don't want to
fight!"

The cowboy stretched his long legs indolently and deliberately. His
hands were in his pockets. He spat into the sawdust box. "Well, who
the hell thought you did?" he inquired.

The Swede backed rapidly towards a corner of the room. His hands were
out protectingly in front of his chest, but he was making an obvious
struggle to control his fright. "Gentlemen," he quavered, "I suppose I
am going to be killed before I can leave this hous