"_Non_! _Non_! De _treize_! De, w'at you call t'irten--she repe't! A'm git mor' as seex hondre dollaire--" The proprietor lumbered heavily from behind the bar and Benton noted that the thick fingers closed tightly about the handle of a bung-starter. The crowd of Mexicans thinned against the wall as the man with ponderous stealth approached to a point directly behind the excited vagabond who continued his protestations with increasing vigour. The next instant the Texan's six-gun flashed from its holster and as he crossed the room his eye caught the swift nod of the croupier. When the proprietor drew back his arm to strike, the thick wrist was seized from behind and he was spun violently about to glare into the smiling eyes of the cowpuncher--eyes in which a steely glint flickered behind the smile, a glint more ominous even than the feel of the muzzle of the blue-black six-gun that pressed deeply into his flabby paunch just above the waistband of his trousers. "Drop that mallet!" The words came softly, but with an ungentle softness that was accompanied by a boring, twisting motion of the gun muzzle as it pressed deeper into his midriff. The bung-starter thudded upon the floor. "Now let's get the straight of this," continued the Texan. "Hey, you Greaser, if you c'n quit talkin' long enough to say somethin', we'll find out what's what here. You ort to look both ways when you're in a dump like this or the coyotes'll find out what you taste like. Come on, now--give me the facts in the case an' I'll a'joodicate it to suit all parties that's my way of thinkin'." "_Oui_! A'm play de four bit on de _treize_, an' _voila_! She ween! Da's wan gran' honch! A'm play heem wan tam' mor'. De w'eel she spin 'roun', de leetle ball she sing lak de bee an', _Nom de Dieu_! She repe't! De t'irten ween ag'in. A'm reech--But _non_!" The man pointed excitedly to the croupier who sneered across the painted board upon which a couple of gold pieces lay beside a little pile of silver. "A-ha, _canaille_! Wat you call--son of a dog! T'ief! She say, 'feefty dollaire'! Dat more as seex hondre dollaire----" "It's a lie!" cried the croupier fiercely, "the thirteen don't repeat. The sixteen win--you kin see fer yourself. An' what's more, they can't no damn Injun come in here an' call me no----" "Hold on!" The Texan shifted his glance to the croupier without easing the pressure on the gun. "If the sixteen win, what's the fifty bucks for? His stake's on the thirteen, ain't it?" "What business you got, hornin' in on this? It hain't your funeral. You Texas tin-horns comes over here an' lose----" "That'll be about all out of you. An' if I was in your boots I wouldn't go speakin' none frivolous about funerals, neither." The smile was gone from the steel-grey eyes and the croupier experienced a sudden chilling in the pit of his stomach.