The big ruffian slammed down a fist like a ham, so that the chips jumped. “Didja hear me speak, kid? Know who I am?” he blustered. The sun streamed full on the boy’s fair curly head from the window above. It brought out the faint golden down on his lean cheek and emphasized a certain cherubic innocence of gaze that still lingered from his childhood. “Why, no, I don’t reckon I do.” “I’m Sam Dutch.” Hugh coppered two of the big man’s bets and played the jack to win. “Knew a fellow called Dutch once—hanged for stealing sheep from the Mormons. No kin, maybe,” he said cheerfully. The lookout stirred uneasily, then stepped from the place where he sat and disappeared through a side door. The cards slid out of the box. Hugh won both bets he had coppered. Scot sized up chips to match the bets, and the boy drew them in with his left hand. Dutch turned to him a face distorted as a gargoyle. “Play yore own game and keep off’n the cards I play. An’ don’t get heavy with me,” he snarled with an oath. “Sure not,” Hugh promised amiably. “It was down on the Humboldt Sink they hanged him, I recollect.” The bad man thrust his unkempt head closer. “Get outa here. You’re crowdin’ me. I don’t want my private graveyard to hold no kid-size coffins.” “Room for both of us,” said Hugh coolly, and he did not give a fraction of an inch. Instead, he coppered another of the camp bully’s bets, playing the ace to lose. “Not room for me an’ you here both. I tell you I’m Sam Dutch.” Scot slid out the cards. The ace lost. “Yes, I heard you—no need to shout,” Hugh said tranquilly, reaching for his winnings. Dutch brushed his arm aside roughly. He raked in the chips. “I’ll collect on that ace,” he announced. “You played it to win and it lost,” Hugh told him. “Did I?” The killer was dangerously near explosion point. “Don’t forget, young fella, that I’m chief in this town.” Hugh looked straight at him, his blue eyes narrowed ever so little. “So? Who elected you?” This cool defiance from an unknown smooth-cheeked boy put the match to the ruffian’s rage. He snatched from his head the Peruvian hat and stamped it under his feet. His teeth ground savagely. He stooped as though to leap, and as he did so his fingers closed on the horn handle of the bowie projecting from his boot leg. The long blade flashed in the sunlight. Almost simultaneously a derringer and a navy revolver flamed. A stupid puzzled expression gathered on the face of the man in the army overcoat. He seemed to be groping for the meaning of what had happened. The huge body swayed and the bowie clattered to the floor. Both brothers watched the killer intently. Neither fired a second shot, though every sense, nerve, and muscle waited in readiness for instant action. Dutch clutched at the faro table with both hands, then unexpectedly pitched forward upon it, scattering chips and cards in all directions.