Back in the room stood two tables, both covered with green cloth. One was unused; the other accommodated four men. Each of the quartet wore a hat drawn low over his face; each held cards. They seldom spoke; when they did, their voices were low. VB saw only their lips move. Their motions were like the words--few and abrupt. When chips were counted it was with expertness; when they were shoved to the center of the table it was with finality. Near them, tilted against the wall in a wire-trussed chair, sat a sleeping man, hat on the floor. Two swinging oil lamps lighted the smoke-fogged air of the place, and their glow seemed to be diffused by it, idealizing everything, softening it-- Everything except the high lights from the bottles on the shelf. Those were stabs of searing brightness; they hurt VB's eyeballs. His gaze traveled back to the Mexican. The melody had drifted from the fandango into a swinging waltz song popular in the cities four years before. He whistled the air through his teeth. The cigarette was still between his lips. The face brought vague recollections to VB. Then he remembered that this was Julio, the Mexican who ran with Rhues. He belonged to Rhues, they had told him, body and soul. Thought of Rhues sent VB's right hand to his left side, up under the arm. He squeezed the gun that nestled there. Of a sudden, nausea came to the man who looked in. It was not caused by fear of Rhues--of the possibility of an encounter. The poignant fumes that came from the open door stirred it, and the sickness was that of a man who sees his great prize melt away. For the moment VB wanted to rebel. He tore his eyes from those glittering bottles; tried to stop his breathing that treacherous nostrils might not inhale those odors. But it was useless--his feet would not carry him away. He knew he must move, move soon, and though he now cried out in his heart against it he knew which way his feet would carry him. He half turned his body and looked back toward the shack where the Captain waited, and a tightening came in his throat to mingle with the rapaciousness there. "Just a little while, Captain," he whispered, feeling childishly that the horse would hear the words and understand. "Just a little while--I'm just--just going to take a little hand in the card game." And as the Mexican finished his waltz with a rip of the thumb clear across the six strings of his instrument, Young VB put a foot on the threshold of the saloon and slowly drew himself to his full height in the doorway. Framed by darkness he stood there, thumbs in his belt, mouth in a grim line, hat down to hide the pallor of his cheeks, the torment in his eyes; his shoulders were braced back in resolution, but his knees, inside his generous chaps, trembled. CHAPTER XX The Last Stand