His mouth was pinched at the corners, and otherwise his expression never varied.
Once he turned. A broad-faced man, laughing and obviously too self- contented to see what he was doing, trod heavily on the toes of Terry, stepping past the latter to get his winnings. He was caught by the shoulder and whirled around. The crowd saw the tall man draw his right foot back, balance, lift a trifle on his toes, and then a balled fist shot up, caught the broad-faced man under the chin and dumped him in a crumpled heap half a dozen feet away. They picked him up and took him away, a stunned wreck. Terry had turned back to his game, and in ten seconds had forgotten what he had done.
But the crowd remembered, and particularly he who had twice laughed at
Terry from the veranda of the hotel.
The heap in the canvas sack diminished, shrank—he dumped the remainder of the contents into his pocket. He had been betting in solid lumps of a thousand for the past twenty minutes, and the crowd watched in amazement. This was drunken gambling, but the fellow was obviously sober. Then a hand touched the shoulder of Terry.
"Just a minute, partner."
He looked into the face of a big man, as tall as he and far heavier of build: a magnificent big head, heavily marked features, a short-cropped black beard that gave him dignity. A middle-aged man, about forty-five, and still in the prime of life.
"Lemme pass a few words with you."
Terry drew back to the side.
CHAPTER 22
"My Name's Pollard," said the older man. "Joe Pollard."