The Border Legion

"Boss, can't we set in now?" demanded Beady Jones.

"Say, Beady, you're in a hurry to lose your gold," replied Kells.

"Wait till I beat Gulden and Smith."

Luck turned against Jesse Smith. He lost first to Gulden, then to

Kells, and presently he rose, a beaten, but game man. He reached for

the whisky.

"Fellers, I reckon I can enjoy Kells's yellow streak more when I

ain't playin'," he said.

The bandit leader eyed Smith with awakening rancor, as if a

persistent hint of inevitable weakness had its effect. He frowned,

and the radiance left his face for the forbidding cast.

"Stand around, you men, and see some real gambling," he said.

At this moment in the contest Kells had twice as much gold as

Gulden, there being a huge mound of little buckskin sacks in front

of him.

They began staking a bag at a time and cutting the cards, the higher

card winning. Kells won the first four cuts. How strangely that

radiance returned to his face! Then he lost and won, and won and

lost. The other bandits grouped around, only Jones and Braverman now

manifesting any eagerness. All were silent. There were suspense,

strain, mystery in the air. Gulden began to win consistently and

Kells began to change. It was a sad and strange sight to see this

strong man's nerve and force gradually deteriorate under a fickle

fortune. The time came when half the amount he had collected was in

front of Gulden. The giant was imperturbable. He might have been a

huge animal, or destiny, or something inhuman that knew the run of

luck would be his. As he had taken losses so he greeted gains--with

absolute indifference. While Kells's hands shook the giant's were

steady and slow and sure. It must have been hateful to Kells--this

faculty of Gulden's to meet victory identically as he met defeat.

The test of a great gambler's nerve was not in sustaining loss, but

in remaining cool with victory. The fact grew manifest that Gulden

was a great gambler and Kells was not. The giant had no emotion, no

imagination. And Kells seemed all fire and whirling hope and despair

and rage. His vanity began to bleed to death. This game was the

deciding contest. The scornful and exultant looks of his men proved

how that game was going. Again and again Kells's unsteady hand

reached for one of the whisky bottles. Once with a low curse he

threw an empty bottle through the door.

"Hey, boss, ain't it about time--" began Jesse Smith. But whatever

he had intended to say, he thought better of, withholding it.

Kells's sudden look and movement were unmistakable.