Looking at this strange Poggin, instinctively divining his abnormal and hideous power, Duane had for the first time in his life the inward quaking fear of a man. It was like a cold-tongued bell ringing within him and numbing his heart. The old instinctive firing of blood followed, but did not drive away that fear. He knew. He felt something here deeper than thought could go. And he hated Poggin. That individual had been considering Fletcher's appeal. “Jim, I ante up,” he said, “an' if Phil doesn't raise us out with a big hand--why, he'll get called, an' your pard can set in the game.” Every eye shifted to Knell. He was dead white. He laughed, and any one hearing that laugh would have realized his intense anger equally with an assurance which made him master of the situation. “Poggin, you're a gambler, you are--the ace-high, straight-flush hand of the Big Bend,” he said, with stinging scorn. “I'll bet you my roll to a greaser peso that I can deal you a hand you'll be afraid to play.” “Phil, you're talkin' wild,” growled Poggin, with both advice and menace in his tone. “If there's anythin' you hate it's a man who pretends to be somebody else when he's not. Thet so?” Poggin nodded in slow-gathering wrath. “Well, Jim's new pard--this man Dodge--he's not who he seems. Oh-ho! He's a hell of a lot different. But _I_ know him. An' when I spring his name on you, Poggin, you'll freeze to your gizzard. Do you get me? You'll freeze, an' your hand'll be stiff when it ought to be lightnin'--All because you'll realize you've been standin' there five minutes--five minutes ALIVE before him!” If not hate, then assuredly great passion toward Poggin manifested itself in Knell's scornful, fiery address, in the shaking hand he thrust before Poggin's face. In the ensuing silent pause Knell's panting could be plainly heard. The other men were pale, watchful, cautiously edging either way to the wall, leaving the principals and Duane in the center of the room. “Spring his name, then, you--” said Poggin, violently, with a curse. Strangely Knell did not even look at the man he was about to denounce. He leaned toward Poggin, his hands, his body, his long head all somewhat expressive of what his face disguised. “BUCK DUANE!” he yelled, suddenly. The name did not make any great difference in Poggin. But Knell's passionate, swift utterance carried the suggestion that the name ought to bring Poggin to quick action. It was possible, too, that Knell's manner, the import of his denunciation the meaning back of all his passion held Poggin bound more than the surprise. For the outlaw certainly was surprised, perhaps staggered at the idea that he, Poggin, had been about to stand sponsor with Fletcher for a famous outlaw hated and feared by all outlaws. Knell waited a long moment, and then his face broke its cold immobility in an extraordinary expression of devilish glee. He had hounded the great Poggin into something that gave him vicious, monstrous joy.