He nodded to the players, slid into his chair, and began to deal. His face took on the gambler’s mask of impassivity. This mask did not lift when a heavy-set huge man slouched into the Crystal Palace and to the corner where McClintock presided. Someone hastily moved aside to give the newcomer a place. Nobody in Virginia City disputed any question of precedence with Sam Dutch.
The desperado had been drinking. It was apparent to all that he was in an ugly humour. Gradually, inconspicuously, the players at that end of the hall cashed in their chips and departed from the immediate vicinity. Scot continued to deal with a wooden face, but behind his expressionless eyes was a wary intentness. Dutch meant trouble. He had come with the deliberate intention of making it.
Friends had brought to McClintock the word that he had better look out for Dutch. The bad man was jealous of his popularity, his influence in the camp, and above all of the fearlessness that would not accept intimidation. Shrewdly, with that instinct for safety common to all killers, the fellow had chosen his moment well. All the advantage would lie with him. The hands of the dealer must be above the table sliding out cards. His own could be on the butts of his six-shooters before he called for a showdown. What Dutch proposed was not a duel but deliberate cold-blooded murder.
Scot knew this. He knew, too, that if either of his hands lifted for an instant from the cards the ruffian opposite would fling slug after slug into his body. Nor could he expect any help from the lookout for the game. Dutch was too sure on the shoot to tempt interference.
The roulette wheel continued to turn. The stud and draw poker games went on. Automatically men made their bets, but the interest was gone from their play. The atmosphere had grown electric. The furtive attention of everybody focussed on two men, the killer and the victim he had selected. When would Dutch find his excuse to strike? In the tenseness of the suspense throats parched and nerves grew taut.
The contrast between the two men was striking. The one dealing the cards was clean-cut, graceful, and lithe as a tiger. From head to foot he was trim and well-groomed. Even the fingernails were polished pink in the latest San Francisco fashion. The huge man in front of him was dirty, his hair and beard unkempt, his figure slouchy. The long army overcoat he wore was splashed with mud. He looked the incarnation of brute force dominated by craft instead of intelligence.
Into the Crystal Palace a lean sun-and-wind browned man walked. He was about to start back to take his run on the pony express and he had come in to say good-bye to his brother. With one clear-eyed steady look he realized the situation. The gunman had not yet called for a showdown. He meant to choose his own time for fastening the quarrel on Scot. His rage might still be diverted into another channel.
Hugh did his thinking as he moved lightly forward. There was not a break in his stride as he walked straight to the faro table. Carelessly, it appeared, but really by cool design, he chose the place next to Dutch, close to him and on his right.
“Don’t crowd, young fella,” warned the bully heavily. “Me, when I play, I want room a-plenty.”
The pony express rider tossed a twenty-dollar gold piece on the table. “Chips,” he said, without even looking at Dutch.