He ruefully scratched his head.
“A wrong steer for once, I reckon. I warn’t slick enough. Too much money on the table. But it looked like the card; I never took my eyes off’n it. We’ll try ag’in, and switch to another layout. By thunder, I want revenge on this joint and I mean to get it. So do you, don’t you, pardner?” he appealed to me.
As with mute, sickly denial I turned away it seemed 128 to me that I sensed a shifting of forms at the monte table—caught the words “You watch here a moment”; and close following, a slim white hand fell heavily upon My Lady’s shoulder. It whirled her about, to face the gambler. His smooth olive countenance was dark with a venom of rage incarnate that poisoned the air; his syllables crackled.
“You devil! I heard you, at the table. You meddle with my come-ons, will you?” And he slapped her with open palm, so that the impact smacked. “Now get out o’ here or I’ll kill you.”
She flamed red, all in a single rush of blood.
“Oh!” she breathed. Her hand darted for the pocket in her skirt, but I sprang between the two. Forgetful of my revolver, remembering only what I had witnessed—a woman struck by a man—with a blow I sent him reeling backward.
He recovered; every vestige of color had left his face, except for the spot where I had landed; his hat had sprung aside from the shock—his gray eyes, contrasted with his black hair, fastened upon my eyes almost deliberately and his upper lip lifted over set white teeth. With lightning movement he thrust the fingers of his right hand into his waistcoat pocket.
I heard a rush of feet, a clamor of voices; and all the while, which seemed interminable, I was tugging, awkward with deadly peril, at my revolver. His fingers had whipped free of the pocket, I glimpsed as with second sight (for my eyes were held strongly by 129 his) the twin little black muzzles of a derringer concealed in his palm; a spasm of fear pinched me; they spurted, with ringing report, but just at the instant a flanneled arm knocked his arm up, the ball had sped ceiling-ward and the teamster of the gaming table stood against him, revolver barrel boring into his very stomach.
“Stand pat, Mister. I call you.”
In a trice all entry of any unpleasant emotion vanished from my antagonist’s handsome face, leaving it olive tinted, cameo, inert. He steadied a little, and smiled, surveying the teamster’s visage, close to his.