Men spoke, some laughed, but in their laughter was no mirth.  It was more like the sound of choking.  They stamped their feet to relieve the grip of strained muscles.  The dealer reached forth and slid the stack of bills into the drawer at his waist without counting.  The case-keeper passed a shaking hand over her face, and when it came away she saw blood on her fingers where she had sunk her teeth into her lower lip.  Glenister did not rise.  He sat, heavy-browed and sullen, his jaw thrust forward, his hair low upon his forehead, his eyes bloodshot and dead.

“I’ll sit the hand out if you’ll let me bet the ‘finger,’” said he.

“Certainly,” replied the dealer.

When a man requests this privilege it means that he will call the amount of his wager without producing the visible stakes, and the dealer may accept or refuse according to his judgment of the bettor’s responsibility.  It is safe, for no man shirks a gambling debt in the North, and thousands may go with a nod of the head though never a cent be on the board.

There were still a few cards in the box, and the dealer turned them, paying the three men who played.  Glenister took no part, but sat bulked over his end of the table glowering from beneath his shock of hair.

Cherry was deathly tired.  The strain of the last hour had been so intense that she could barely sit in her seat, yet she was determined to finish the hand.  As Bronco paused before the last turn, many of the by-standers made bets.  They were the “case-players” who risked money only on the final pair, thus avoiding the chance of two cards of like denomination coming together, in which event ("splits” it is called) the dealer takes half the money.  The stakes were laid at last and the deal about to start when Glenister spoke.  “Wait!  What’s this place worth, Bronco?”

“What do you mean?”

“You own this outfit?” He waved his hand about the room.  “Well, what does it stand you?”

The gambler hesitated an instant while the crowd pricked up its ears, and the girl turned wondering, troubled eyes upon the miner.  What would he do now?

“Counting bank rolls, fixtures, and all, about a hundred and twenty thousand dollars.  Why?”

“I’ll pick the ace to lose, my one-half interest in the Midas against your whole damned lay-out!”

There was an absolute hush while the realization of this offer smote the on-lookers.  It took time to realize it.  This man was insane.  There were three cards to choose from—­one would win, one would lose, and one would have no action.

Of all those present only Cherry Malotte divined even vaguely the real reason which prompted the man to do this.  It was not “gameness,” nor altogether a brutish stubbornness which would not let him quit, It was something deeper.  He was desolate and his heart was gone.  Helen was lost to him—­worse yet, was unworthy, and she was all he cared for.  What did he want of the Midas with its lawsuits, its intrigues, and its trickery?  He was sick of it all—­of the whole game—­and wanted to get away.  If he won, very well.  If he lost, the land of the Aurora would know him no more.