“Hello!” gasped Redburn, quailing under the gaze of a cold steel tube—­“what’s the row, now?”

“Draw your revolver!” commanded Harris, sternly, having an eye on the card-sharp at the same time, “Come! don’t be all night about it!”

Redburn obeyed; he had no other choice.

“Cock it and cover your man!”

“Who do you mean?”

“The cuss under my left-hand aim.”

Again the “pilgrim” felt that he could not afford to do otherwise than obey.

So he took “squint” at the gambler’s left breast after which Harris withdrew the siege of his left weapon, although he still covered the young Easterner, the same.  Quietly he moved around to where the card-sharp sat, white and trembling.

“Gentlemen!” he yelled, in a clear, ringing voice, “will some of you step this way a moment?”

A crowd gathered around in a moment:  then the youth resumed: 

“Feller-citizens, all of you know how to play cards, no doubt.  What is the penalty of cheating, out here in the Hills?”

For a few seconds the room was wrapt in silence; then a chorus of voices gave answer, using a single word: 

“Death!”

“Exactly,” said Harris, calmly.  “When a sharp hides cards in Chinaman fashion up his sleeve, I reckon that’s what you call cheatin’, don’t you?”

“That’s the size of it,” assented each bystander, grimly.

Ned Harris pressed his pistol-muzzle against the gambler’s forehead, inserted his fingers in each of the capacious sleeves, and a moment later laid several high cards upon the table.

A murmur of incredulity went through the crowd of spectators.  Even “pilgrim” Redburn was astonished.

After removing the cards, Ned Harris turned and leveled his revolver at the head of the young man from the East.

“Your name?” he said, briefly, “is—­”

“Harry Redburn.”

“Very well.  Harry Redburn, that gambler under cover of your pistol is guilty of a crime, punishable in the Black Hills by death.  As you are his victim—­or, rather, were to be—­it only remains for you to aim straight and rid your country of an A No. 1 dead-beat and swindler!”

“Oh! no!” gasped Redburn, horrified at the thought of taking the life of a fellow-creature—­“I cannot, I cannot!”

“You can!” said Harris, sternly; “go on—­you must salt that card-sharp, or I’ll certainly salt you!”

A deathlike silence followed.

“One!” said Harris, after a moment.

Redburn grew very pale, but not paler was he than the card-sharp just opposite.  Redburn was no coward; neither was he accustomed to the desperate character of the population of the Hills.  Should he shoot the tricky wretch before him, he knew he should be always calling himself a murderer.  On the contrary, in the natural laws of Deadwood, such a murder would be classed justice.

“Two!” said Ned Harris, drawing his pistol-hammer back to full cock.  “Come, pilgrim, are you going to shoot?”