With no other object in mind, and unarmed, never once dreaming of attack, I advanced alone along the dark, narrow strip of deck, leading toward the ladder which mounted to the wheelhouse.  There were no lights, and I was practically compelled to feel my way by keeping one hand upon the rail.  The steamer was sweeping around a great bend, and a leadsman forward was calling the depth of water, his monotonous voice chanting out strange river terms of guidance.  I had reached the foot of the ladder, my fingers blindly seeking the iron rungs in the gloom, when a figure, vague, indistinct, suddenly emerged from some denser shadow and confronted me.  Indeed the earliest realization I had of any other presence was a sharp pressure against my breast, and a low voice breathing a menacing threat in my ear.

“I advise you not to move, you young fool.  This is a cocked pistol tickling your ribs.  Where were you going?”

The black night veiled his face, but language and voice, an spite of its low grumble, told me the speaker was Kirby.  The very coldness of his tone served to send a chill through me.

“To have a word with Thockmorton,” I answered, angered at my own fear, and rendered reckless by that burst of passion.  “What do you mean by your threat?  Haven’t you robbed enough men already with cards without resorting to a gun?”

“This is no robbery,” and I knew by the sharpness of his reply my words had stung, “and it might be well for you to keep a civil tongue in your head.  I overheard what you said to those men in the cabin.  So you are going to take care of me, are you?” There was a touch of steel in the low voice.  “Now listen, you brainless meddler.  Joe Kirby knows exactly what he is doing when he plays any game.  I had nothing to do with Beaucaire’s death, but those stakes are mine.  I hold them, and I will kill any man who dares to interfere with me.”

“You mean you refuse to return any of this property?”

“Every cent, every nigger, every acre—­that’s my business.  Beaucaire was no child; he knew what he was betting, and he lost.”

“But,” I insisted almost hopelessly, “perhaps you do not wholly understand this matter—­the entire situation.  Judge Beaucaire risked every penny he possessed in the world.”

“I suppose he did, but he expected to gain it all back again, with as much more of mine.”

“That may be true, Kirby.  I am not defending his action, but surely this is no reason, now that he is dead, why you should not show some degree of mercy to others totally innocent of any wrong.  The man left two daughters, both young girls, who will now be homeless and penniless.”

He laughed, and the sound of that laugh was more cruel than the accompanying words.