The faro-dealer and the lookout jerked round—­then slowly backed toward the side of the room.  The man at the wheel paused with his hand in the air.  The players, intent upon the game, glanced up curiously.  Pino, who stood near White-Eye and almost in front of him, dropped his cigarette.  The room became as still as the noon desert.  Three of the four men who bore ancient grudge against The Spider, knew that there would be no parley—­that talk would be useless.  The fourth, the man whom they had addressed as Steve, had but recently associated himself with them, and had no quarrel with The Spider.  In that tense moment, Gary wished himself well out of it.

“Lost your nerve, Pino?” laughed The Spider, in his queer, high voice.  “You dropped your cigarette.”

One of the roulette players giggled hysterically.  At the sound of that laugh, White-Eye jerked Pino in front of him.  The Spider’s gun appeared as though he had caught it from the air.  As it roared, Pino staggered sideways and fell.  White-Eye fired as The Spider, throwing shot after shot, walked slowly toward him.  Suddenly White-Eye coughed and staggered against the table.  With his last shot The Spider dropped White-Eye, then jerked a second gun from his waistband.  Gary, kneeling behind the faro table, fired over its top.  The Spider whirled half-round, recovered himself, and, sidling toward the table, threw down on the kneeling man, who sank forward coughing horribly.  Within eight feet of him The Spider’s gun roared again.  Gary’s body jerked stiff at the shock and then slowly collapsed.  The fourth man, Longtree, with his hands above his head, begged The Spider not to kill his old pal!  The Spider’s face, horribly distorted, venomous as a snake’s, colorless and glistening with sweat, twisted queerly as he spoke:  “Kill you, you damned coyote?” And he shot Longtree down as a man would shoot a trapped wolf.

Framed in the office doorway stood Pony Baxter, a blue automatic in his hand.  The Spider, leaning against the roulette table, laughed.  “Gave me the double-cross, eh, Pony?  How do you like the layout?” He swayed and clutched at the table.  “Don’t kill me, Pony!” he cried, in ghastly mimickry of Longtree’s voice.  “Don’t kill an old pal, Pony!” And the sound of his voice was lost in the blunt roar of a shot that loosened Baxter’s fingers from the automatic.  It clattered to the floor.  Baxter braced himself against the door-frame and, turning, staggered to the desk ’phone.

The Spider nodded to the faro-dealer.  “Close your cases,” he said, and he hiccoughed and spat viciously.  “Get me downstairs—­I’m done.”

The dealer, who possessed plenty of nerve himself, was dumb with wonder that this man, who had deliberately walked into a fight against three fast guns, was still on his feet.  Yet he realized that The Spider had made his last fight.  He was hard hit.  “God, what a mess!” said the dealer as he took The Spider’s arm and steadied him to the office.  “You better lay down,” he suggested.