Now women, especially pretty women, were common enough sights in Alaskan drinking-places. So it was not strange that Rouletta's presence had occasioned neither comment nor curiosity. More than once during the last hour or two men had spoken to her with easy familiarity, but they had taken no offense when she had turned her back. It was quite natural, therefore, that the fellow with whom Kirby was gambling should interpret her effort to claim attention as an attempt to interrupt the game, and that he should misread the meaning of her imploring look. There being considerable money at stake, he frowned down at her, then with an impatient gesture he brushed her aside. "None of that, sister!" he warned her. "You get out of here." Sam Kirby was in the midst of a discussion with the proprietor, across the bar, and because there was a deal of noise in the place he did not hear his daughter's low-spoken protest. "Oh, I mean it!" The former speaker scowled at Rouletta. "You dolls make me sick, grabbing at every nickel you see. Beat it, now! There's plenty of young suckers for you to trim. If you can't respect an old man with gray hair, why--" The rest of his remark caused the girl's eyes to widen and the chattering voices to fall silent. Sam Kirby turned, the dice-box poised in his right hand. "Eh? What's that?" he queried, vaguely. "I'm talking to this pink-faced gold-digger--" "Father!" Rouletta exclaimed. "I'm just telling her--" The fellow repeated his remark, whereupon understanding came to Kirby and his expression slowly altered. Surprise, incredulity, gave place to rage; his eyes began to blaze. "You said that to--her?" he gasped, in amazement. "To my kid?" There was a moment of tense silence during which the speaker appeared to be numbed by the insult, then, "By God!" Sam placed the dice-box carefully upon the bar. His movement was deliberate, but he kept his flaming gaze fixed upon the object of his wrath, and into his lean, ashen countenance came such demoniac fury as to appal those who saw it. Rouletta uttered a faint moan and flung herself at her father; with a strength born of terror she clung to his right wrist. In this she was successful, despite old Sam's effort to shake her off, but she could not imprison both his arms. Kirby stepped forward, dragging the girl with him; he raised that wicked artificial left hand and brought it sweeping downward, and for a second time that day the steel shaft met flesh and bone. His victim spun upon his heels, then, with outflung arms and an expression of shocked amazement still upon his face, he crashed backward to the floor.