“Cards?”

The man at the left, tall, gaunt, ill-kempt, flicked the pasteboards in his hand to the floor and ground them beneath his heavy boots.

“Give me five.”

The point of the Vandyke beard was aimed straight past the speaker.

“Cards?” repeated the dealer.

“Five!  Can’t you hear?”

The man braced against the bar looked around with interest.  In the mask of Mick Kennedy the single eye closed almost imperceptibly.  Slowly the face of the dealer turned.

“I can hear you pretty well when you cash into the game.  You already owe me forty blues, Blair.”

The long figure stiffened, the face went pale.

“You—­mean—­you—­” the tongue was very thick.  “You cut me out?”

For a moment there was silence; then once more the beard pointed to the player next beyond.

“Cards?” for the third time.

Five chips ranged in a row beside their predecessors.

“Three.”

A hand, almost the hand of a gentleman, went instinctively to the gaunt throat of the ignored gambler and jerked at the close flannel shirt; then without a word the owner got unsteadily to his feet and followed an irregular trail toward the interested spectator at the bar.

“Have a drink with me, pard,” said the gambler, as he regarded the immovable Mick.  “Two whiskeys, there!”

Kennedy did not stir, and for five seconds Blair blinked his dulled eyes in wordless surprise; then his fist came down upon the cottonwood board with a mighty crash.

“Wake up there, Mick!” he roared.  “I’m speaking to you!  A couple of ‘ryes’ for the gentleman here and myself.”

Another pause, momentary but effective.

“I heard you.”  The barkeeper spoke quietly but without the slightest change of expression, even of the eye.  “I heard you, but I’m not dealing out drinks to deadbeats.  Pay up, and I’ll be glad to serve you.”

Swift as thought Blair’s hand went to his hip, and the rattle of poker-chips sympathetically ceased.  A second, and a big revolver was trained fair at the dispenser of liquors.

“Curse you, Mick Kennedy!” muttered a choking voice, “when I order drinks I want drinks.  Dig up there, and be lively!”

The man by the speaker’s side, surprised out of his intoxication, edged away to a discreet distance; but even yet the Irishman made no move.  Only the single headlight shifted in its socket until it looked unblinkingly into the blazing eyes of the gambler.

“Tom Blair,” commanded an even voice, “Tom Blair, you white livered bully, put up that gun!”

Slowly, very slowly, the speaker turned,—­all but the terrible Cyclopean eye,—­and moved forward until his body leaned upon the bar, his face protruding over it.

“Put up that gun, I tell you!” A smile almost fiendish broke over the furrows of the rugged face.  “You wouldn’t dast shoot, unless perhaps it was a woman, you coward!”