“’Twas my own bad playin’ done it!” he retorted, gruffly, “I ruint a sure ten hand to hold for a possible twenty-four, an’ I didn’t get the turn so I only counted four. Ye beat me by five points. If I’d played my sure ten, I’d have won by a point. We’ll play again.” Pausing abruptly, he produced his note book and tearing another leaf from it, passed it across the table. Then he consulted a penciled memorandum. “Ye’ve won three thousan’,” he said. “I’ve still got five hundred in dust in McCarty’s safe, an’ about two hundred in my pocket. We’ll play for seven hundred. I owe no man, an’ I’ll not go in debt.” MacShane leaned back in his chair and shook his head: “Why can’t you be reasonable, Gordon? The cards are runnin’ against you. Anyone can see that. I don’t want your dust.” The old man glared wrath fully across the table: “An’ why don’t ye want my dust? Ain’t my dust as gude as any man’s? Come, play! ’Tis my deal, an’ ye won’t be quittin’ wi’out giving me a chance to win back what ye’ve won from me!” MacShane shrugged: “Deal,” he said, tersely, and picked up the cards as they fell. MacShane won, this time by a wide margin, and Gordon tossed his gold sack onto the table, and with it an order on McCarty for the last of his gold in the safe. Then, fixing MacShane with an angry glare, he leaned half across the table: “I’ll play ye for the claim!” he cried. “What’ll ye put against it?” “Not one damned cent!” cried MacShane. “I’m done.” “Ye’d win a man’s dust an’ not give him a chance to get it back?” taunted the old man. “’Tis not what I expected from a man that’s known as the best man in the North! Put up ten thousan’ against the claim. It’s worth more than that, from top indications. An’ we’ll play for it.” There was dead silence among the spectators that rimmed the table as they watched with breathless interest the two who faced each other across the board.