again, and again the dice rolled. And now there
were pieces of gold among the silver that covered the square of the
five.

The other two looked askance at him, and the owner of the game growled:
"Gimme room for the coins, stranger, will you?"

Pierre picked up his winnings. In his left hand he held them, and the
coins brimmed his cupped palm. With the free hand he placed his new
wagers. But he lost now.

"I cannot win forever," thought Pierre, and redoubled his bets in an
effort to regain the lost ground.

Still his little fortune dwindled, till the sweat came out on his
forehead and the blood that had flushed his face ran back and left him
pale with dread. And at last there remained only one gold piece. He
hesitated, holding it poised for the wager, while the owner of the game
rattled the dice loudly and looked up at the coin with hungry eyes.

Once more Pierre closed his eyes and laid his wager, while his empty
left hand slipped again inside his shirt and touched the metal of the
cross, and once more when he opened his eyes the hand of the gambler
was going out to lay a second coin over his.

"It is the cross!" thought Pierre, and thrilled mightily. "It is the
cross which brings me luck."

The dice rattled out. He won. Again, and still he won. The gambler
wiped his forehead and looked up anxiously. For these were wagers in
gold, and the doubling stakes were running high. About Pierre a crowd
had grown--a dozen cattlemen who watched the growing heap of gold with
silent fascination. Then they began to make wagers of their own, and
there were faint whispers of wrath and astonishment as the dice clicked
out and each time the winnings of Pierre doubled.

Suddenly the dealer stopped and held up his left hand as a warning.
With his right, very slowly, inch by inch lest any one should suspect
him of a gun play, he drew out a heavy forty-five and laid it on the
table with the belt of cartridges.

"Three years she's been on my hip through thick and thin, stranger.
Three years she's shot close an' true. There ain't a butt in the world
that hugs your hand tighter. There ain't a cylinder that spins easier.
Shoot? Lad, even a kid like you could be a killer with that six-gun.
What will you lay ag'in' it?"

And his red-stained eyes glanced covetously at the yellow heap of
Pierre's money.

"How much?" said Pierre eagerly. "Is there enough on the table to buy
the gun?"

"Buy?" said the other fiercely.