"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----"