“They say one’s born every minute, Ad.  Dawged if I don’t believe it,” he sneered.

Miller was not saying much himself, but his fat stomach shook at this sally.  If his partner could goad the boys into more betting he was quite willing to divide the profits.

Audibly Hart yawned and murmured his sentiments aloud.  “I’m liable to tell these birds what I think of ’em, Steve, if they don’t spend quite some time layin’ off’n us.”

“Don’t tell us out loud.  We might hear you,” advised Doble insolently.

“In regards to that, I’d sure worry if you did.”

Dave was at that moment returning to his place with a cup of hot coffee.  By some perverse trick of fate his glance fell on Doble’s sinister face of malignant triumph.  His self-control snapped, and in an instant the whole course of his life was deflected from the path it would otherwise have taken.  With a flip he tossed up the tin cup so that the hot coffee soused the crook.

“Goddlemighty!” screamed Doble, leaping to his feet.  He reached for his forty-five, just as Sanders closed with him.  The range-rider’s revolver, like that of most of his fellows, was in a blanket roll in the wagon.

Miller, with surprising agility for a fat man, got to his feet and launched himself at the puncher.  Dave flung the smaller of his opponents back against Steve, who was sitting tailor fashion beside him.  The gunman tottered and fell over Russell, who lost no time in pinning his hands to the ground while Hart deftly removed the revolver from his pocket.

Swinging round to face Miller, Dave saw at once that the big man had chosen not to draw his gun.  In spite of his fat the gambler was a rough-and-tumble fighter of parts.  The extra weight had come in recent years, but underneath it lay roped muscles and heavy bones.  Men often remarked that they had never seen a fat man who could handle himself like Ad Miller.  The two clinched.  Dave had the under hold and tried to trip his bulkier foe.  The other side-stepped, circling round.  He got one hand under the boy’s chin and drove it up and back, flinging the range-rider a dozen yards.

Instantly Dave plunged at him.  He had to get at close quarters, for he could not tell when Miller would change his mind and elect to fight with a gun.  The man had chosen a hand-to-hand tussle, Dave knew, because he was sure he could beat so stringy an opponent as himself.  Once he got the grip on him that he wanted the big gambler would crush him by sheer strength.  So, though the youngster had to get close, he dared not clinch.  His judgment was that his best bet was his fists.

He jabbed at the big white face, ducked, and jabbed again.  Now he was in the shine of the moon; now he was in darkness.  A red streak came out on the white face opposite, and he knew he had drawn blood.  Miller roared like a bull and flailed away at him.  More than one heavy blow jarred him, sent a bolt of pain shooting through him.  The only thing he saw was that shining face.  He pecked away at it with swift jabs, taking what punishment he must and dodging the rest.