"Would it interest you to know that Mr. Lapelle has engaged in several, with disastrous results to his adversaries?"
"I think he has already mentioned something of the kind to me."
"I'd sooner be your friend than your enemy, Mr. Gwynne," said the gambler earnestly. "I am a permanent citizen of this town and I have no quarrel with you. As your friend, I am obliged to inform you that Barry Lapelle is a dead shot and as quick as lightning with a pistol. I hope you will take this in the same spirit that it is given."
"I thank you, sir," said Kenneth, courteously. "By the way, do you happen to have a pistol with you at present, Mr. Trentman?"
The other looked at him keenly for a few seconds before answering. "I have. I seldom go without one."
"If you will do me the kindness to walk with me up to the woods beyond the lake and will grant me the loan of your weapon for half a minute, I think I may be able to demonstrate to you that Mr. Lapelle is not the only dead shot in the world. I was brought up with a pistol in my hand, so to speak. Have you ever tried to shoot a ground squirrel at twenty paces? You have to be pretty quick to do that, you know."
Trentman shook his head. "There's a lot of difference between shooting a ground squirrel and blazing away at a man who is blazing away at you at the same time. I'll take your word for the ground squirrel business, Mr. Gwynne, and bid you good day."
"My regrets to your principal and my apologies to you, Mr. Trentman," said Kenneth, lifting his hat.
The gambler raised his own hat. A close observer would have noticed a troubled, anxious gleam in his eye as he turned to retrace his steps in the direction of the square. It was his custom to saunter slowly when traversing the streets of the town, as one who produces his own importance and enjoys it leisurely. He never hurried. He loitered rather more gracefully when walking than when standing still. But now he strode along briskly,—in fact, with such lively decision that for once in his life he appeared actually to be going somewhere. As he rounded the corner and came in sight of the jail, he directed a fixed, consuming glare upon the barred windows; a quite noticeable scowl settled upon his ordinarily unruffled brow,—the scowl of one searching intently, even apprehensively.
He was troubled. His composure was sadly disturbed. Kenneth Gwynne had given him something to think about,—and the more he thought about it the faster he walked. He was perspiring quite freely and he was a little short of breath when he flung open the door and entered his "den of iniquity" down by the river. He took in at a glance the three men seated at a table in a corner of the somewhat commodious "card-room." One of them was dealing "cold hands" to his companions. A fourth man, his dealer, was leaning against the window frame, gazing pensively down upon the slow-moving river. Two of the men at the table were newcomers in town. They had come up on the Revere and they had already established themselves in his estimation as "skeletons"; that is, they had been picked pretty clean by "buzzards" in other climes before gravitating to his "boneyard." He considered himself a good judge of men, and he did not like the looks of this ill-favoured pair. He had made up his mind that he did not want them hanging around the "shanty"; men of that stripe were just the sort to give the place a bad name! One of them had recalled himself to Barry Lapelle the night before; said he used to work for a trader down south or somewhere.