The big gambler was thinking harder then, perhaps, than he had ever

thought in his life before. He was no coward, although there was a

yellow, wolfish streak of treachery in him, and he read clearly enough

in the watchful eyes glowing behind that blue steel barrel a merciless

determination which left him nerveless. He knew Hampton would kill him

if he needed to do so, but he likewise realized that he was not likely

to fire until he had gained the information he was seeking. Cunning

pointed the only safe way out from this difficulty. Lies had served

his turn well before, and he hoped much from them now. If he only knew

how much information the other possessed, it would be easy enough. As

he did not, he must wield his weapon blindly.

"You 're makin' a devil of a fuss over little or nuthin'," he growled,

simulating a tone of disgust. "I never ain't hed no quarrel with ye,

exceptin' fer the way ye managed ter skin me at the table bout two

years ago. I don't give two screeches in hell for who you are; an'

besides, I reckon you ain't the only ex-convict a-ranging Dakota either

fer the matter o' that. No more does Murphy. We ain't no bloomin'

detectives, an' we ain't buckin' in on no business o' yourn; ye kin

just bet your sweet life on thet."

"Where is Murphy, then? I wish to see the fellow."

"I told you he'd gone. Maybe he didn't git away till this mornin', but

he's gone now all right. What in thunder do ye want o' him? I reckon

I kin tell ye all thet Murphy knows."

For a breathless moment neither spoke, Hampton fingering his gun

nervously, his eyes lingering on that brutal face.

"Slavin," he said at last, his voice hard, metallic, "I 've figured it

out, and I do know you now, you lying brute. You are the fellow who

swore you saw me throw away the gun that did the shooting, and that

afterwards you picked it up."

There was the spirit of murder in his eyes, and the gambler cowered

back before them, trembling like a child.

"I--I only swore to the last part, Captain," he muttered, his voice

scarcely audible. "I--I never said I saw you throw---"

"And I swore," went on Hampton, "that I would kill you on sight. You

lying whelp, are you ready to die?"

Slavin's face was drawn and gray, the perspiration standing in beads

upon his forehead, but he could neither speak nor think, fascinated by

those remorseless eyes, which seemed to burn their way down into his

very soul.




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