Another covert signal from Pollard. Every one of the four turned toward
him. The chances of Terry were diminished, nine out of ten, for each of
those four, he shrewdly guessed, was a practiced gunman. Cold reason came
to Terry's assistance.

"I told you when I was broke," he said gently. "I told you that I was
through. You told me to go on."

"I figured you was kidding me," said Pollard harshly. "I knew you still
had El Sangre back. Son, I'm a kind sort of a man, I am. I got a name for
it."

In spite of himself a faint and cruel smile flickered at the corners of
his mouth as he spoke. He became grave again.

"But they's some things I can't stand. They's some things that I hate
worse'n I hate poison. I won't say what one of 'em is. I leave it to you.
And I ask you to keep in the game. A thousand bucks ag'in' a boss. Ain't
that more'n fair?"

He no longer took pains to disguise his voice. It was hard and heavy and
rang into the ear of Terry. And the latter, feeling that his hour had
come, looked deliberately around the room and took note of every guarded
exit, the four men now openly on watch for any action on his part.
Pollard himself sat erect, on the edge of his chair, and his right hand
had disappeared beneath the table.

"Suppose I throw the coin this time?" he suggested.

"By God!" thundered Pollard, springing to his feet and throwing off the