Scot smiled grimly. He had a picture of himself slipping out of the door to avoid Sam Dutch.
It was his temperament always to take the bull by the horns. He stepped across the dance floor to the bar, and stood at the elbow of the desperado.
Dutch, clinking glasses with a girl, looked round to see his enemy before him. He was taken at a disadvantage. Was this a trap set for him? If he made a move would the younger McClintock or some other ally of the gambler fill him full of slugs? Nervously his eyes stole round the big room. They came back to the clean, straight figure standing in front of him.
“No place for you, Dutch,” the faro dealer said curtly. “Not good for your health. You’ve got a weak heart, you know. It’s likely to stop working altogether if you’re not careful of yourself. Go home—now—right away—and stay there till the stage leaves. This is an unhealthy altitude for you. Try Aurora or Dayton.”
The bad man moistened his dry lips with his tongue. Tiny beads of moisture stood out on his forehead. He had come to the parting of the ways and knew it. If he let this man drive him from the house he could never hold up his head in Virginia again. His reign as chief would be ended here. Should he take a chance and draw? He had killed many men. This gambler, so far as he knew, had never got one. Why not now? This very instant. It would all be over in a flash.
And yet—he could not do it. With McClintock’s cold and steely stare in his he could not drop the glass from his hand and reach for a revolver. The wills of the two clashed, fought out the battle, and the stronger won.
The gaze of the killer fell away and slid round the hall in a furtive search for help. It found none. He was playing a lone hand. The way out must be one of his own choosing. Of all these men and women who watched this crisis so tensely not one but would be glad to see him blotted out of existence. His hand was against every man’s. That was the penalty he paid for his reputation.
Again his tongue went out to moisten dry lips.
“I—I reckon you’re right,” he heard himself say huskily. “I ain’t feelin’ good yet. Fact is, I’m still a sick man. Mebbe I better go home. I was thinkin’ thataway myself before you came in.”
“Keep right on thinking it. Think yourself out of Virginia inside of twenty-four hours,” ordered Scot implacably.