“Room for both of us,” said Hugh coolly, and he did not give a fraction of an inch. Instead, he coppered another of the camp bully’s bets, playing the ace to lose.
“Not room for me an’ you here both. I tell you I’m Sam Dutch.”
Scot slid out the cards. The ace lost.
“Yes, I heard you—no need to shout,” Hugh said tranquilly, reaching for his winnings.
Dutch brushed his arm aside roughly. He raked in the chips. “I’ll collect on that ace,” he announced.
“You played it to win and it lost,” Hugh told him.
“Did I?” The killer was dangerously near explosion point. “Don’t forget, young fella, that I’m chief in this town.”
Hugh looked straight at him, his blue eyes narrowed ever so little. “So? Who elected you?”
This cool defiance from an unknown smooth-cheeked boy put the match to the ruffian’s rage. He snatched from his head the Peruvian hat and stamped it under his feet. His teeth ground savagely. He stooped as though to leap, and as he did so his fingers closed on the horn handle of the bowie projecting from his boot leg. The long blade flashed in the sunlight.
Almost simultaneously a derringer and a navy revolver flamed.