“One bet!” echoed Kells, aghast. “Against what?”
“AGAINST THE GIRL!”
Joan sank against the wall, a piercing torture in her breast. She clutched the logs to keep from falling. So that was the impending horror. She could not unrivet her eyes from the paralyzed Kells, yet she seemed to see Jim Cleve leap straight up, and then stand, equally motionless, with Kells.
“One cut of the cards—my gold against the girl!” boomed the giant.
Kells made a movement as if to go for his gun. But it failed. His hand was a shaking leaf.
“You always bragged on your nerve!” went on Gulden, mercilessly. “You're the gambler of the border!... Come on.”
Kells stood there, his doom upon him. Plain to all was his torture, his weakness, his defeat. It seemed that with all his soul he combated something, only to fail.
“ONE CUT—MY GOLD AGAINST YOUR GIRL!”
The gang burst into one concerted taunt. Like snarling, bristling wolves they craned their necks at Kells.
“No, damn—you! No!” cried Kells, in hoarse, broken fury. With both hands before him he seemed to push back the sight of that gold, of Gulden, of the malignant men, of a horrible temptation.