Probably all of them were right, for it seemed impossible that the Sunday excitements at Sim Ripsons’ could proceed from any single cause—their proportions were too magnificent.
Drinking, singing, swearing, gambling, and fighting, the Tough Caseites made night so hideous that Uncle Ben spent half the night in earnest prayer for these misguided men, and the remainder of it in trying to make up his mind to start for home.
But by far the greater number of the boys, on that particular night, surrounded the table at which sat Redwing and Flip. Both were playing their best, and as honestly as each was compelled to do by his adversary’s watchfulness.
Each had several times accused the other of cheating; each had his revolver at his right hand; and the crowd about them had the double pleasure of betting on the game and on which would shoot first.
Suddenly Redwing arose, as Flipp played an ace on his adversary’s last card, and raked the dust toward himself.
“Yer tuk that ace out of yer sleeve—I seed yer do it. Give me back my ounces,” said Redwing.
“It’s a lie!” roared the great Flipp, springing to his feet, and seizing Redwing’s pistol-arm.
The weapon fell, and both men clutched like tigers. Sim Ripson leaped over the bar and separated them.
“No rasslin’ here!” said he. “When gentlemen gits too mad to hold in, an’ shoots at sight, I hev to stan’ it, but rasslin’s vulgar—you’ll hev to go out o’ doors to do it.”
“I’ll hev it out with him with pistols, then!” cried Redwing, picking up his weapon.