are playing in cahoots."

Dingwell had risen. His hands rested on the table as an assurance that
he did not mean to back up his charge with a gunplay unless it became
necessary.

The man who called himself Blair wasted no words in denial. His right
hand slid toward his hip pocket. Simultaneously the fingers of Dave's
left hand knotted to a fist, his arm jolted forward, and the bony
knuckles collided with the jaw of the tinhorn. The body of the
cattleman had not moved. There seemed no special effort in the blow,
but Blair went backward in his chair heels over head. The man writhed
on the floor, turned over, and lay still.

From the moment that he had launched his blow Dave wasted no more
attention on Blair. His eyes fastened upon Smith. The man made a
motion to rise.

"Don't you," advised the cattleman gently. "Not till I say so, Mr.
Smith. There's no manner of hurry a-tall. Meldrum, see what he's got
in his right-hand pocket. Better not object, Smith, unless you want to
ride at your own funeral."

Meldrum drew from the man's pocket a pack of cards.

"I thought so. They've been switching decks on us. The one we're
playing with is marked. Run your finger over the ace of clubs there,
Hal. . . . How about it?"

"Pin-pricked," announced Rutherford. "And they've garnered in most of