“The game’s up, gentlemen; the bank’s broke.”
A roar of not unsympathetic laughter arose from the players.
“’Tain’t often we get the best of you, Varley,” said Taffy, smiting him on the shoulder. “I’ll celebrate the event by calling for whisky all round.”
But Varley declined his glass, and with a pleasant, musical “Good-night, boys,” sauntered out of the saloon.
The light was burning in Esmeralda’s hut, and he looked toward it with a little sigh.
As he made his way along the rough foot-path, he heard the sound of a horse’s hoofs. He stopped, and instinctively slid his hand upon his revolver. It is a trick which one very soon acquires in the wilds.
The sound came nearer, and a horseman rode past Varley—that is, he would have ridden past; but Varley stretched out his left hand and gripped the bridle, his right hand holding his revolver ready.
The rider was almost thrown from his seat, but he pulled himself together and stuck on.
“What’s your hurry?” said Varley.