mask completely. "You damned skunk, are you accusin' me of crooking the
throw of the coin?"

Terry waited for the least moment--waited in a dull wonder to find
himself unafraid. But there was no fear in him. There was only a cold,
methodical calculation of chances. He told himself, deliberately, that no
matter how fast Pollard might be, he would prove the faster. He would
kill Pollard. And he would undoubtedly kill one of the others. And they,
beyond a shadow of a doubt, would kill him. He saw all this as in a
picture.

"Pollard," he said, more gently than before, "you'll have to eat that
talk!"

A flash of bewilderment crossed the face of Pollard--then rage--then that
slight contraction of the features which in some men precedes a violent
effort.

But the effort did not come. While Terry literally wavered on tiptoe, his
nerves straining for the pull of his gun and the leap to one side as he
sent his bullet home, a deep, unmusical voice cut in on them:

"Just hold yourself up a minute, will you, Joe?"

Terry looked up. On the balcony in front of the sleeping rooms of the
second story, his legs spread apart, his hands shoved deep into his
trouser pockets, his shapeless black hat crushed on the back of his head,
and a broad smile on his ugly face, stood his nemesis--Denver the yegg!

Pollard sprang back from the table and spoke with his face still turned