“I produced the deck—greasy and dog-eared; for many’s the social game the Kid and I had played with ’em together. We squatted on the prairie in the red twilight, and the Kid dealt. Not a tremor of his perfect gambler’s hands! Cool as though it was a game of penny ante. “I drew three deuces! _Deuces!_ Oh, the damned, dirty deuces! “‘How many?’ says the Kid pleasantly. For the first time in my life I forgot to guard my hand. A deep rolling thunder had grown up out of the burning west. It seemed I could feel the prairies tremble like a bridge under a drove of sheep. ‘Listen!’ I gasped. ‘It’s the critters coming,’ said the Kid; ‘cattle and buffalo and elk and deer and wolves—the whole posse. How many cards did you call for?—_two_, wasn’t it?’ “He thrust two cards into my hand. One of ’em was the deuce of hearts! O God! It wasn’t only the printed heart he gave me; it was the warm, red, beating heart of a friend.” Frenchy dropped his head into his arms on the table and groaned. When he lifted his face again his eyes were wet. “Four deuces—and they burn holes in the dark whenever I shut my eyes! And all day I see four pairs of devils dancing in the sunlight till my head swims!” Frenchy dropped his head upon his chest and breathed deep, uneven breaths for a space. “The Kid had only a pair of face-cards,” he continued; “a dinky little pair of face-cards. And for a second the man in me came to the surface, and I threw the four hand down and stamped on it and said I wouldn’t leave him. And what did the Kid do? Began with all the blackguard adjectives of the language and ended with ‘coward’ and threw the bunch in my teeth. ‘You’re the first man that ever called me a quitter, Frenchy,’ he said. ‘I played my hand, didn’t I? What would you do to a man who’d ask you to take your money back when you’d lost? If I’d won, do you think I wouldn’t leave your carcass here to stew, you cussed fool?’ “And then something in the back of my head woke up and howled: ‘You won—it’s yours—a chance for life—fair play—he’d go if you lost—he’d go!’ And there was a roaring in my head and the flaming night whirled ’round, and the bitter words stung me, and my heart hardened—and—I—went. “I found the Kid’s horse saddled and bridled. I cut the lariat and leaped astride. I jabbed the spike spurs into the frightened brute till he roared with pain. I had forgotten everything. I was a Fear without a body flying through a darkness that coughed smoke and spit light. And then at last things quit whirling, and I felt the steady _lift, lift, lift_ of the good brute racing with all the devils down a heart-breaking stretch for the river.