The Border Legion

The goddess of chance, as false as the bandit's vanity, played with

him. He brightened under a streak of winning. But just as his face

began to lose its haggard shade, to glow, the tide again turned

against him. He lost and lost, and with each bag of gold-dust went

something of his spirit. And when he was reduced to his original

share he indeed showed that yellow streak which Jesse Smith had

attributed to him. The bandit's effort to pull himself together, to

be a man before that scornful gang, was pitiful and futile. He might

have been magnificent, confronted by other issues, of peril or

circumstance, but there he was craven. He was a man who should never

have gambled.

One after the other, in quick succession, he lost the two bags of

gold, his original share. He had lost utterly. Gulden had the great

heap of dirty little buckskin sacks, so significant of the hidden

power within.

Joan was amazed and sick at sight of Kells then, and if it had been

possible she would have withdrawn her gaze. But she was chained

there. The catastrophe was imminent.

Kells stared down at the gold. His jaw worked convulsively. He had

the eyes of a trapped wolf. Yet he seemed not wholly to comprehend

what had happened to him.

Gulden rose, slow, heavy, ponderous, to tower over his heap of gold.

Then this giant, who had never shown an emotion, suddenly, terribly

blazed.

"One more bet--a cut of the cards--my whole stake of gold!" he

boomed.

The bandits took a stride forward as one man, then stood breathless.

"One bet!" echoed Kells, aghast. "Against what?"

"AGAINST THE GIRL!"

Joan sank against the wall, a piercing torture in her breast. She

clutched the logs to keep from falling. So that was the impending

horror. She could not unrivet her eyes from the paralyzed Kells, yet

she seemed to see Jim Cleve leap straight up, and then stand,

equally motionless, with Kells.

"One cut of the cards--my gold against the girl!" boomed the giant.

Kells made a movement as if to go for his gun. But it failed. His

hand was a shaking leaf.

"You always bragged on your nerve!" went on Gulden, mercilessly.

"You're the gambler of the border! ... Come on."

Kells stood there, his doom upon him. Plain to all was his torture,

his weakness, his defeat. It seemed that with all his soul he

combated something, only to fail.

"ONE CUT--MY GOLD AGAINST YOUR GIRL!"

The gang burst into one concerted taunt. Like snarling, bristling

wolves they craned their necks at Kells.