The Texan | Page 2

evil companions, in this here
God-forsaken, lizard-ridden, Greaser-loving sheep-herdin' land of
sorrow. But, give me another jolt of that there pizen-fermentus an' I'll
raise to heights unknown. A few more shots of that an' they ain't no
tellin' what form of amusement a man's soul might incline to."
"Y'got the price?"
"I ain't got even the makin's--only an ingrowin' cravin' fer spiritual
licker an' a hankerin' to see America first----"
"That hoss," the proprietor jerked a thumb toward the open door

beyond which the big rangy black pawed fretfully at the street. "Mebbe
we might make a trade. I got one good as him 'er better. It's that sor'l
standin' t'other side of yourn."
The Texan rested an arm upon the bar and leaned forward
confidentially. "Fatty," he drawled, "you're a liar." The other noted the
hand that rested lightly upon the cowman's hip near the ivory butt of
the six-gun that protruded from its holster, and took no offence. His
customer continued: "They ain't no such horse--an' if they was, you
couldn't own him. They ain't no man ever throw'd a kak on Ace of
Spades but me, an' as fer sellin' him, or tradin' him--I'll shoot him first!"
A sudden commotion at the back of the room caused both men to turn
toward the wheel where a fierce altercation had arisen between the
croupier and the vagabond to whom the Texan had tossed his last coin.
"You'll take that er nothin'! It's more money'n y'ever see before an'----"
"Non! Non! De treize! De, w'at you call t'irten--she repe't! A'm git mor'
as seex hondre dollaire--" The proprietor lumbered heavily from behind
the bar and Benton noted that the thick fingers closed tightly about the
handle of a bung-starter. The crowd of Mexicans thinned against the
wall as the man with ponderous stealth approached to a point directly
behind the excited vagabond who continued his protestations with
increasing vigour. The next instant the Texan's six-gun flashed from its
holster and as he crossed the room his eye caught the swift nod of the
croupier.
When the proprietor drew back his arm to strike, the thick wrist was
seized from behind and he was spun violently about to glare into the
smiling eyes of the cowpuncher--eyes in which a steely glint flickered
behind the smile, a glint more ominous even than the feel of the muzzle
of the blue-black six-gun that pressed deeply into his flabby paunch
just above the waistband of his trousers.
"Drop that mallet!" The words came softly, but with an ungentle
softness that was accompanied by a boring, twisting motion of the gun
muzzle as it pressed deeper into his midriff. The bung-starter thudded

upon the floor.
"Now let's get the straight of this," continued the Texan. "Hey, you
Greaser, if you c'n quit talkin' long enough to say somethin', we'll find
out what's what here. You ort to look both ways when you're in a dump
like this or the coyotes'll find out what you taste like. Come on,
now--give me the facts in the case an' I'll a'joodicate it to suit all parties
that's my way of thinkin'."
"Oui! A'm play de four bit on de treize, an' voila! She ween! Da's wan
gran' honch! A'm play heem wan tam' mor'. De w'eel she spin 'roun', de
leetle ball she sing lak de bee an', Nom de Dieu! She repe't! De t'irten
ween ag'in. A'm reech--But non!" The man pointed excitedly to the
croupier who sneered across the painted board upon which a couple of
gold pieces lay beside a little pile of silver. "A-ha, canaille! Wat you
call--son of a dog! T'ief! She say, 'feefty dollaire'! Dat more as seex
hondre dollaire----"
"It's a lie!" cried the croupier fiercely, "the thirteen don't repeat. The
sixteen win--you kin see fer yourself. An' what's more, they can't no
damn Injun come in here an' call me no----"
"Hold on!" The Texan shifted his glance to the croupier without easing
the pressure on the gun. "If the sixteen win, what's the fifty bucks for?
His stake's on the thirteen, ain't it?"
"What business you got, hornin' in on this? It hain't your funeral. You
Texas tin-horns comes over here an' lose----"
"That'll be about all out of you. An' if I was in your boots I wouldn't go
speakin' none frivolous about funerals, neither."
The smile was gone from the steel-grey eyes and the croupier
experienced a sudden chilling in the pit of his stomach.
"Let's get down to cases," the cowpuncher continued. "I kind of got the
Greaser into this here jack-pot an' it's up to me to get him out. He lays
four bits on the thirteen--she pays thirty-five--that's seventeen-fifty.

Eighteen, as she lays. The blame fool leaves it lay an' she win
again--that's thirty-five times eighteen.