Then Three-Ace Artie spoke again:
“Are you calling, Murdock?” he inquired softly.
The miner hesitated an instant, then turned abruptly on his heel.
“When I call you,” he said evenly, over his shoulder, “it will break you for keeps—and you won't have long to wait, either!”
The Kid, who had been alternating a maudlin gaze from the face of one man to the other, stood up now, and, hanging to the back of his chair, watched the miner's retreat in a fuddled way.
“Say, go chase yourself!” he called out, in sudden inspiration—and, glancing around for approval, laughed boisterously at his own drunken humour.
The door closed on Murdock Shaw. The Kid slipped down into his chair, dumped a handful of American double-eagles out of the money-belt—and, reaching again for his glass, banged it on the table.
“Gimme another!” he shouted in the direction of the bar. “Hey—Mac—d'ye hear! Gimme another drink!”
Three-Ace Artie's hands were above the table again—the slim, delicate, tapering fingers shuffling, riffling, and reshuffling the cards.
MacDonald approached the table, and picked up the empty glass.