“What’s the matter, Bronco?” The Kid made no reply, and Roy repeated, “What do you want?”
“That’s a hell of a question,” the gambler said, hoarsely. “I want you, of course, and I’ve got you.”
“Hold up! I am unarmed. This is your third try, and I want to know what’s back of it.”
“Damn the talk!” cried the faro-dealer, moving closer till the light shone on his features, which commenced to twitch. He raised the revolver he had half lowered. “There’s reason enough, and you know it.”
Glenister looked him fairly between the eyes, gripping himself with firm hands to stop the tremor he felt in his bones. “You can’t kill me,” he said. “I am too good a man to murder. You might shoot a crook, but you can’t kill a brave man when he’s unarmed. You’re no assassin.” He remained rigid in his chair, however, moving nothing but his lips, meeting the other’s look unflinchingly. The Kid hesitated an instant, while his eyes, which had been fixed with the glare of hatred, wavered a moment, betraying the faintest sign of indecision. Glenister cried out, exultantly:
“Ha! I knew it. Your neck cords quiver.”
The gambler grimaced. “I can’t do it. If I could, I’d have shot you before you turned. But you’ll have to fight, you dog. Get up and draw.”
Roy refused. “I gave Cherry my gun.”
“Yes, and more too,” the man gritted. “I saw it all.”
Even yet Glenister had made no slightest move, realizing that a feather’s weight might snap the gambler’s nervous tension and bring the involuntary twitch that would put him out swifter than a whip is cracked.