The eyes of the McClintocks met. Hugh was no gambler. He was sitting in, Scot knew, to share and lessen the risk. If he could draw the gunman’s attention for even an instant at the critical moment it might save the dealer’s life. A stack of chips slid across to the boy.
The big ruffian slammed down a fist like a ham, so that the chips jumped. “Didja hear me speak, kid? Know who I am?” he blustered.
The sun streamed full on the boy’s fair curly head from the window above. It brought out the faint golden down on his lean cheek and emphasized a certain cherubic innocence of gaze that still lingered from his childhood.
“Why, no, I don’t reckon I do.”
“I’m Sam Dutch.”
Hugh coppered two of the big man’s bets and played the jack to win. “Knew a fellow called Dutch once—hanged for stealing sheep from the Mormons. No kin, maybe,” he said cheerfully.
The lookout stirred uneasily, then stepped from the place where he sat and disappeared through a side door. The cards slid out of the box. Hugh won both bets he had coppered. Scot sized up chips to match the bets, and the boy drew them in with his left hand.
Dutch turned to him a face distorted as a gargoyle. “Play yore own game and keep off’n the cards I play. An’ don’t get heavy with me,” he snarled with an oath.
“Sure not,” Hugh promised amiably. “It was down on the Humboldt Sink they hanged him, I recollect.”
The bad man thrust his unkempt head closer. “Get outa here. You’re crowdin’ me. I don’t want my private graveyard to hold no kid-size coffins.”