Strange to say, the fickle goddess had really shifted her banner at last, and the Bronco Kid was dealing straight faro now.  He was too good a player to force a winning hand, and Glenister’s ill-fortune became as phenomenal as his winning had been.  The girl who figured in this drama was keyed to the highest tension, her eyes now on her counters, now searching the profile of her victim.  Glenister continued to lose and lose and lose, while the girl gloated over his swift-coming ruin.  When at long intervals he won a bet she shrank and shivered for fear he might escape.  If only he would risk it all—­everything he had.  He would have to come to her then!

The end was closer than she realized.  The throng hung breathless upon each move of the players, while there was no sound but the noise of shifting chips and the distant jangle of the orchestra.  The lookout sat far forward upon his perch, his hands upon his knees, his eyes frozen to the board, a dead cigar clenched between his teeth.  Crowded upon his platform were miners tense and motionless as statues.  When a man spoke or coughed, a score of eyes stared at him accusingly, then dropped to the table again.

Glenister took from his clothes a bundle of bank-notes, so thick that it required his two hands to compass it.  On-lookers saw that the bills were mainly yellow.  No one spoke while he counted them rapidly, glanced at the dealer, who nodded, then slid them forward till they rested on the king.  He placed a “copper” on the pile.  A great sigh of indrawn breaths swept through the crowd.  The North had never known a bet like this—­it meant a fortune.  Here was a tale for one’s grandchildren—­that a man should win opulence in an evening, then lose it in one deal.  This final bet represented more than many of them had ever seen a one time before.  Its fate lay on a single card.

Cherry Malotte’s fingers were like ice and shook till the buttons of her case-keeper rattled, her heart raced till she could not breathe, while something rose up and choked her.  If Glenister won this bet he would quit; she felt it.  If he lost, ah! what could the Kid there feel, the man who was playing for a paltry vengeance, compared to her whose hope of happiness, of love, of life hinged on this wager?

Evidently the Bronco Kid knew what card lay next below, for he offered her no sign, and as Glenister leaned back he slowly and firmly pushed the top card out of the box.  Although this was the biggest turn of his life, he betrayed no tremor.  His gesture displayed the nine of diamonds, and the crowd breathed heavily.  The king had not won.  Would it lose?  Every gaze was welded to the tiny nickelled box.  If the face-card lay next beneath the nine-spot, the heaviest wager in Alaska would have been lost; if it still remained hidden on the next turn, the money would be safe for a moment.

Slowly the white hand of the dealer moved back; his middle finger touched the nine of diamonds; it slid smoothly out of the box, and there in its place frowned the king of clubs.  At last the silence was broken.