Bronco glanced quickly over his shoulder, and as he did so the breath caught in his throat—­but for only an instant.  A girl stood so close beside him that the lace of her gown brushed his sleeve.  He was shuffling at the moment and dropped a card, then nodded to her. speaking quietly, as he stooped to regain the pasteboard: 

“Howdy, Cherry?”

She did not answer—­only continued to look at the “lay-out.”  “What a woman!” he thought.  She was not too tall, with smoothly rounded bust and hips, and long waist, all well displayed by her perfectly fitting garments.  Her face was oval, the mouth rather large, the eyes of dark, dark-blue, prominently outlined under thin, silken lids.  Her dull-gold hair was combed low over the ears, and her smile showed rows of sparkling teeth before it dived into twin dimples.  Strangest of all, it was an innocent face, the face and smile of a school-girl.

The Kid finished his shuffling awkwardly and slid the cards into the box.  Then the woman spoke: 

“Let me have your place, Bronco.”

The men gasped, the Jew snickered, the lookout straightened in his chair.

“Better not.  It’s a hard game,” said the Kid, but her voice was imperious as she commanded him: 

“Hurry up.  Give me your place.”

Bronco arose, whereupon she settled in his chair, tucked in her skirts, removed her gloves, and twisted into place the diamonds on her hands.

“What the devil’s this?” said the lookout, roughly.  “Are you drunk, Bronco?  Get out of that chair, miss.”

She turned to him slowly.  The innocence had fled from her features and the big eyes flashed warningly.  A change had coarsened her like a puff of air on a still pool.  Then, while she stared at him, her lids drooped dangerously and her lip curled.

“Throw him out, Bronco,” she said, and her tones held the hardness of a mistress to her slave.

“That’s all right,” the Kid reassured the lookout.  “She’s a better dealer than I am.  This is Cherry Malotte.”

Without noticing the stares this evoked, the girl commenced.  Her hands, beautifully soft and white, flashed over the board.  She dealt rapidly, unfalteringly, with the finish of one bred to the cards, handling chips and coppers with the peculiar mannerisms that spring from long practice.  It was seen that she never looked at her check-rack, but, when a bet required paying, picked up a stack without turning her head; and they saw further that she never reached twice, nor took a large pile and sized it up against its mate, removing the extra disks, as is the custom.  When she stretched forth her hand she grasped the right number unerringly.  This is considered the acme of professional finish, and the Bronco Kid smiled delightedly as he saw the wonder spread from the lookout to the spectators and heard the speech of the men who stood on chairs and tables for sight of the woman dealer.