"All right, Curly. Don't you forget to walk lame."
"Hist! Heah come the Ryans!"
The two youngsters came hurrying into the saloon, where I stood watching Balshannon while he lost the last of his money. Jim clutched me by the arm, whispering something, but I did not catch what he said, for Curly was making a last play to get Balshannon from the tables.
"You quit," said he, "befo' yo're too late, patrone."
"It's too late now," says Balshannon; "what's the good?"
"It's not too late to save yo' life. Come quick!"
"So," says Balshannon, looking up sort of surprised, "you think you can er—frighten me?"
Louisiana was leaning forward across the table. "Look a-here, Crook," says he, "you can play, or you can get right out, but you don't interrupt this game." And Curly was hustled aside by Ryan's watchers.
"Now, Joe," the patrone was saying, "let's finish this."
He staked his last chips and lost, then got up with a little sigh, thinking, I reckon, of his wife, his ranche, his cattle.