"

"That's it. I can't see you rob Mr. Cochrane like this. You aren't
gambling--you're digging gold. The game stops now."

It was a moment before the crowd realized what was about to happen;
they saw it reflected first in the face of Hurley, which suddenly went
taut and pale, and then, even as they looked with a smile of curiosity
and derision toward Pierre le Rouge, they saw and understood.

For the moment Pierre said, "The game stops now," the calm which had
been with him was gone. It was like the scent of blood to the starved
wolf. The last word was scarcely off his tongue when he was crouched
with a devil of green fury in his eyes--the light struck his hair into
a wave of flame--his face altered by a dozen ugly years.

"D'you mean?" whispered Hurley, as if he feared to break the silence
with his full voice.

"Get out of the room."

And the impulse of Hurley, plainly enough, was to obey the order, and
go anywhere to escape from that relentless stare. His glance wavered
and flashed around the circle and then back to Red Pierre, for the
expectancy and the alertness of all the crowd forced him back.

When the leader of the pack springs and fails to kill, the rest of the
pack tear him to pieces. Remembering this, Mac Hurley forced his
glance back to Pierre. Moreover, there was a soft voice from behind,
and he remembered Diaz.

All this had taken place in the length of time that it takes a heavy
body to totter on the brink of a precipice or a cat to regain its feet
after a fall. After the voice of Diaz there was a sway through the
room, a pulse of silence, and then three hands shot for their
hips--Pierre, Diaz, and Hurley.

No stop-watch could have caught the differing lengths of time which
each required for the draw. The muzzle of Hurley's revolver was not
clear of the holster--the gun of Diaz was nearly at the level when
Pierre's weapon exploded at his hip. The bullet cut through the wrist
of Hurley. Never again would that slender, supple hand fly over the
cards, doing things other than they seemed. He made no effort to
escape from the next bullet, but stood looking down at his broken
wrist; horror for the moment gave him a dignity oddly out of place with
his usual appearance. He alone in all the room was moveless.

The crowd, undecided for an instant, broke for the doors at the first
shot; Pierre le Rouge, pitched to the floor as Diaz leaped forward, the
revolver in either hand spitting lead a