Crack!
It was the pistol of a deputy sheriff that spoke first. That officer had been the only one to detect the gambler's action, and he had fired instantly.
Jim Duff sank, to the sidewalk, groaning while the deputy sheriff dryly explained the cause of his firing. A loaded revolver was still gripped in Duff's right hand, though the gambler was too weak and in too much pain to fire.
Dr. Furniss' office was near by, and the young physician, sharing in the popular excitement, was awake. He came out on the run, bending over the wounded man to examine him. “Duff,” said Dr. Furniss gravely, after a brief examination, “I deem it my duty to tell you that you've dealt your last card. Have you any wishes to express before we move you?”
“I—want to—talk to—Reade,” groaned the injured man.
“Certainly,” replied Tom, when the request was repeated to him. Stepping softly to where the gambler lay on the sidewalk, Reade bent over him.
“Duff,” said Reade gravely, “you and I haven't always been the best of friends, but I can say honestly that I'm sorry to see you in this plight. I hope that you may recover, yet get some happiness out of life.”
But the gambler's eyes blazed with ferocity.
“Don't waste any soft soap on me, Reade,” he said slowly, and with many pauses. “The Doc is a fool. I'm going to get well, and there will be just one happiness ahead of me. That will be to find you, wherever you may be, and to what I tried to do to you to-night.”
“Can't you forget that sort of thing, Duff?” asked Tom gravely. “Not that I'm afraid of you; you've seen enough of me to-night to know that I'm not afraid of you. But I'm afraid for you. You're close to eternity, Duff, and I'd like to see you go to your death with a calm, hopeful, decent mind. I'd like to see you go with a hope of a better life hereafter.”