Redburn raised his pistol and fired--blindly and carelessly, not
knowing or caring whither went the compulsory death-dealing bullet.

There was a heavy fall, a groan of pain, as the gambler dropped over
on the floor; then for the space of a few seconds all was the wildest
confusion throughout the mammoth saloon.

Revolvers were in every hand, knives flashed in the glare of the
lamplight, curses and threats were in scores of mouths, while some of
the vast surging crowd cheered lustily.

At the table Harry Redburn still sat, as motionless as a statue, the
revolver still held in his hand, his face white, his eyes staring.

There he remained, the center of general attraction, with a hundred
pair of blazing eyes leveled at him from every side.

"Come!" said Ned Harris, in a low tone, tapping him on the
shoulder--"come, pardner; let's git out of this, for times will be
brisk soon. You've wounded one of the biggest card-devils in the
Hills, and he'll be rearin' pretty quick. Look! d'ye see that feller
comin' yonder, who was preachin' from on top of the barrel, a bit ago?
Well, that is Catamount Cass, an' he's a pard of Chet Diamond, the
feller you salted, an' them fellers behind him are his gang. Come!
follow me, Henry, and I'll nose our way out of here."

Redburn signified his readiness, and with a cocked six-shooter in
either hand Ned Harris led the way.