"Death!"
"Exactly," said Harris, calmly. "When a sharp hides cards in Chinaman fashion up his sleeve, I reckon that's what you call cheatin', don't you?"
"That's the size of it," assented each bystander, grimly.
Ned Harris pressed his pistol-muzzle against the gambler's forehead, inserted his fingers in each of the capacious sleeves, and a moment later laid several high cards upon the table.
A murmur of incredulity went through the crowd of spectators. Even "pilgrim" Redburn was astonished.
After removing the cards, Ned Harris turned and leveled his revolver at the head of the young man from the East.
"Your name?" he said, briefly, "is—"
"Harry Redburn."
"Very well. Harry Redburn, that gambler under cover of your pistol is guilty of a crime, punishable in the Black Hills by death. As you are his victim—or, rather, were to be—it only remains for you to aim straight and rid your country of an A No. 1 dead-beat and swindler!"
"Oh! no!" gasped Redburn, horrified at the thought of taking the life of a fellow-creature—"I cannot, I cannot!"