“Throw him out, Bronco,” she said, and her tones held the hardness of a mistress to her slave.
“That’s all right,” the Kid reassured the lookout. “She’s a better dealer than I am. This is Cherry Malotte.”
Without noticing the stares this evoked, the girl commenced. Her hands, beautifully soft and white, flashed over the board. She dealt rapidly, unfalteringly, with the finish of one bred to the cards, handling chips and coppers with the peculiar mannerisms that spring from long practice. It was seen that she never looked at her check-rack, but, when a bet required paying, picked up a stack without turning her head; and they saw further that she never reached twice, nor took a large pile and sized it up against its mate, removing the extra disks, as is the custom. When she stretched forth her hand she grasped the right number unerringly. This is considered the acme of professional finish, and the Bronco Kid smiled delightedly as he saw the wonder spread from the lookout to the spectators and heard the speech of the men who stood on chairs and tables for sight of the woman dealer.
For twenty minutes she continued, until the place became congested, and never once did the lookout detect an error.
While she was busy, Glenister entered the front-door and pushed his way back towards the theatre. He was worried and distrait, his manner perturbed and unnatural. Silently and without apparent notice he passed friends who greeted him.
“What ails Glenister to-night?” asked a by-stander. “He acts funny.”
“Ain’t you heard? Why, the Midas has been jumped. He’s in a bad way—all broke up.”
The girl suddenly ceased without finishing the deck, and arose.
“Don’t stop,” said the Kid, while a murmur of dismay came from the spectators. She only shook her head and drew on her gloves with a show of ennui.
Gliding through the crowd, she threaded about aimlessly, the recipient of many stares though but few greetings, speaking with no one, a certain dignity serving her as a barrier even here. She stopped a waiter and questioned him.