'He ain't a Burdette--for yu,' King replied meaningly. 'When yu've settled with that damned foreman...'
The gunman nodded. 'A thousand bucks would shorely be more use than five hundred,' he suggested.
'Earn 'em, then,' King said shortly. 'But remember, with Luce, it's gotta be entirely a personal matter 'tween yu an' him, an' don't be in too much of a hurry; it mustn't look like a frame-up.'
'I get yu,' Whitey said. 'I don't overlook no bets.'
King Burdette's sinister gaze followed him as he slouched away. 'Yu ain't nobody's dawg--just a plain damn fool,' he muttered. 'When yu bump off Luce, his brothers--though they've disowned him--have just naturally gotta get yu to even the score. I don't overlook bets neither.'
BUSINESS in 'The Lucky Chance' was booming that night. Goldy Evans, burrowing like a human mole in the hillside, had struck a 'pocket'. The news had soon spread, and men flocked to the saloon to share in the celebration they knew would follow. The man himself was there, half drunk, and displaying a heavy Colt's revolver which had been the first thing bought with his newly-acquired wealth.
'An' I reckon it was comin' to me, boys, after the dirty way I got trimmed,' he said. 'Any son-of-a-bitch who tries that trick agin'll git blowed sky-high, yu betcha.'
Which sentiment, especially amongst the mining fraternity, was whole-heartedly applauded. Gold was hard to get, windfalls like the present one few and far between, and to endure the toil and hardship only to benefit a thief was not to any man's liking. As the liquor circulated, inflaming the men's passions, threats were freely uttered, and it might have gone ill with Luce Burdette had he entered the place just then, for some still believed he had robbed the prospector.
'Nex' time we won't worry the marshal,' a burly miner said, and there was a sneer in the last three words. 'A rope or a slug is the on'y cure, an' I guess we can 'tend to that, ourselves.'
'Shore thing, an' interferin' outsiders c'n have a dose o' the same,' growled another, with a drunken glare at Green, who, with one elbow on the bar, was chatting with the saloon-keeper and watching the scene amusedly. The marshal, standing not far away, heard sundry far from complimentary criticisms of himself with an expression of surly contempt; he had a poor opinion of 'dirt-washers,' as he termed them.
'Feelin' plenty brash, ain't they?' he sneered. 'Give 'em two pinches o' yaller dust to buy licker with an' they're gory heroes right off.'
His comment was addressed to Magee, but before that worthy could reply, even had he intended doing so, the door swung open and Whitey entered. At the sight of that blood-drained face Sudden rubbed the back of his head, and in so doing, tilted his hat forward to hide his own features. He recognized the fellow--there could be no two men in the South-west like that--yet he asked a whispered question.
'Who's yore friend?'
Magee looked at him. 'Shure an' I'm not so careless pickin' me frinds,' he replied. 'They call him `Whitey' -- niver heard any other name. He rides for the Circle B, an' 'tis said he has twelve notches on his guns.'
'Reg'lar undertaker's help, huh?' the puncher replied lightly. 'Shucks! Notches ain't so much; where's the sense in whittlin' yore hardware all to bits thataway?'
He faced around, thus presenting his back to the newcomer, hut he did not lose sight of him; mirrors behind a bar are meant to be useful as well as ornamental, so Sudden was able to watch the gunman unobserved.
With a curt nod here and there, Whitey walked to the bar and called for liquor. Sudden noted that he helped himself sparingly from the bottle pushed forward. Also, save for one fleeting glance, he appeared uninterested in the puncher; there had been no gleam of recognition in that look. 'He don't know me,' Sudden reflected. 'Guess I've altered some since we met. Well, I ain't remindin' him.' At the same time, that singular sixth sense which men who tread dangerous paths somehow acquire, was warning him to be on his guard. Presently he became aware that the gunman had moved nearer and was now looking directly at him.
'I guess yu're Green--the new C P foreman,' he said in a flat voice. 'Take a drink?'
'Yu guess pretty good,' the puncher replied, and pointed to his almost untouched glass. 'I'm all fixed; like yore-self, I ain't much on liquor.'
Whitey's slit of a mouth twisted sneeringly. 'What about a li'l game? But mebbe yu ain't much on kyards neither?'
'Like I said, yo're a good guesser,' the foreman agreed. He was alert, wary, suspecting the fellow was intent on forcing a quarrel. His reply brought no expression to that corpse-like mask, but the pupils of the pale eyes narrowed to pin-points.
'Is there anythin' yu are much on?' came the contemptuous inquiry.
'I'm reckoned good at mindin' my own business,' drawled the puncher.
The snub apparently left the gunman unmoved, but it advised the rest of the company that something unusual was taking place. The rattle of poker chips, slither of dealt cards, and murmur of conversation ceased. An atmosphere of menace seemed to envelope the gathering, and every man there, save only the puncher lounging lightly against the bar, seemed to sense what was coming. Magee made an effort to avert the storm. Thrusting forward a bottle, he said placatingly, 'Whist now, Whitey, don't be after makin' throuble. Have one on the house-- both av ye.'
The gunman glared at him. 'Better take a lesson from this fella an' mind yore own business,' he snarled, and turned on Sudden. 'Yu come here, a stranger, glom on to a good job, an' git too uppity to drink or play with us. Who the hell are yu to put on frills?'
Sudden smiled tolerantly; he knew now that his suspicions had been correct--the man was there to kill him, perhaps at the instigation of King Burdette. He determined to let Whitey force the issue.
'Didn't just look at it thataway,' he admitted. 'Seein' yo're sot on 'em, we'll have the drink an' the li'l game.'
He saw the look of chagrin in the killer's eyes; it was not the reply he had played for. In fact, Whitey was disgusted; matters had been going just right for him, and now the fellow had crawfished. He emptied his glass, his right arm dropping to his side. A bitter jeer was in his voice when he replied, 'Thought better of it, huh? Well, that won't help yu none. I ain't takin' favours from yu, yu son-of-a --'
The epithet was one which only an accompanying smile could excuse. Whitey was not smiling, and, as he uttered the word his body fell in to a crouch, while his right hand snapped back to his gun. There was a hurried scuffle as men in the vicinity got themselves out of the way and then--a breath-stopping silence.
'Flash it, yu white-livered sneak,' croaked the killer.
For an instant he thought his prey would escape after all, for the puncher half turned as though about to decline the challenge. Then recollection came; he saw a picture from the past, and the clammy fingers of fear clutched at his heart. He knew that movement, knew too that he was about to suffer the same fate as those he had himself wantonly destroyed. It was too late to retract; even as the thought darted through his brain he was dragging at his gun with the desperation of despair. He got it clear of the holster...
All the nearest spectator could afterwards say was that, following a bang and spurt of flame from the puncher's left hip, he saw Whitey stagger, double up at the knees, and sink slowly down to lie grotesquely sprawled on the sanded floor, his weapon clattering beside him. 'Never see Green go for his gun a-tall, but he musta done, o' course,' he added. 'An' fast? I'm tellin' yu, I believe he could make lightnin' hump itself.'
The crash of the shot ended the tension. Forgetful of their games, the gamblers crowded round the bar, jostling one another to get a glimpse of the dead man. One of them picked up the dropped revolver and ran a finger along the nicks in the butt.
'Kept his tally--six of 'em,' he remarked. 'If there's the same number on the twin, he's sent twelve fellas to wait for him on the other side.'
'He tried for one too many,' was Weldon's comment. 'Me, I'm sooperstitious thataway; when I've bumped off a dozen, I'm stoppin'.'
The remark, despite the presence of death, raised a laugh. Men who made it their business to kill received small sympathy when they paid the penalty. In Western idiom, Whitey had 'got what was comin' to him,' and there was no more to be said.
Sudden went to the marshal, who was looking curiously at the body. 'Yu know where I'm to be found if yu want me,' he said.
'This hombre asked for it,' the officer replied. 'I ain't wantin' yu, but--others may,' he added meaningly.
