“Now catch hold of the reins and sit on quietly,” said Simon, “and remember I’m ridin’ beside you, miss, and I’ve got you covered.” He clicked the lock of his revolver significantly.
Esmeralda gripped the reins tightly, the thought flashing through her mind that she might even yet make a dash for it; but she felt a hand on each side of the reins and her heart sunk. She could scarcely realize the horror of her position. She could hear the murmur rising from the camp below, could have seen the lights if the horrible cloth had not shrouded them from her sight. She could see Varley seated at the card-table, hear the men laughing and singing—while she was in the hands of these Dog’s Ear scoundrels! What would Varley say when he came up to the hut to bid her good-night and found her gone?
The men rode beside her silently, and proceeded quickly but cautiously. She knew by the direction of the wind that they were going from Three Star toward the hills, and her heart sunk under the heavy weight of a terrible fear.
Just as she had pictured him, Varley was as usual presiding at the card-table. Luck was going against him that night, and he was not playing with his usual skill and concentration. He was thinking of Esmeralda; indeed, he thought of little else. The thirst for vengeance upon the man who called himself her husband and had broken her heart was gradually absorbing Varley’s whole being; and even as he shuffled and dealt the cards with his usual languid, nonchalant grace, he was asking himself how and when he could avenge her wrongs.
“’Pears to me, Varley,” said Taffy, as Varley missed a point which would have won the game for him, “that you’d better chuck up cards and take to dominoes. They’re a nice, child-like game, and don’t make no call on your brain. Or how would skittles suit you? ‘Mr. Varley Howard presents his compliments to the nobility an’ gentry of Three Star an’ other camps, an’ begs to inform ’em that, findin’ cards too much for his constitootion, he has opened a saloon for skittles an’ other infant games, where he ’opes to meet his former patrons at hop-scotch an’ peg-top. No playin’ for money allowed.’”
Varley smiled listlessly.
“Yes, I’m a little off color to-night, Taffy,” he said. “We’ll double the stakes if no gentleman objects.”
This characteristic proposal meeting with no objection, the game proceeded; but Varley’s ill luck stuck to him, and not even the high stakes improved his play. A kind of presentiment of coming evil hung over him; and, like all gamblers, Varley was superstitious. He looked just as careless and was as impassive as ever, but the weight was upon him; and as he lost steadily, he called for some whisky—an unusual thing for him to do.
“Yes, bring a couple of gallons,” said Taffy, with solemn gravity. “’Ave a bath in it, Varley; it might pull yer round.”
Varley smiled in harmony with the laugh evoked by Taffy’s witticism, and dealt the cards as slowly and carefully as usual; then, presently, having silently noted his losings, he said, with his little drawl: