The luck went against Belllounds and so did the gambling.  He was not a lamb among wolves, by any means, but the fleecing he got suggested that.  According to Wade he was getting what he deserved.  No cowboys, even such good-natured and fine fellows as these, could be expected to be subjects for Belllounds’s cupidity.  And they won all he had.

“I’ll borrow,” he said, with feverish impatience.  His face was pale, clammy, yet heated, especially round the swollen bruises; his eyes stood out, bold, dark, rolling and glaring, full of sullen fire.  But more than anything else his mouth betrayed the weakling, the born gambler, the self-centered, spoiled, intolerant youth.  It was here his bad blood showed.

“Wal, I ain’t lendin’ money,” replied Lem, as he assorted his winnings.  “Wade, here’s what you staked me, an’ much obliged.”

“I’m out, an’ I can’t lend you any,” said Jim.

Bludsoe had a good share of the profits of that quick game, but he made no move to lend any of it.  Belllounds glared impatiently at them.

“Hell! you took my money.  I’ll have satisfaction,” he broke out, almost shouting.

“We won it, didn’t we?” rejoined Lem, cool and easy.  “An’ you can have all the satisfaction you want, right now or any time.”

Wade held out a handful of money to Belllounds.

“Here,” he said, with his deep eyes gleaming in the dim room.  Wade had made a gamble with himself, and it was that Belllounds would not even hesitate to take money.

“Come on, you stingy cowpunchers,” he called out, snatching the money from Wade.  His action then, violent and vivid as it was, did not reveal any more than his face.

But the cowboys showed amaze, and something more.  They fell straightway to gambling, sharper and fiercer than before, actuated now by the flaming spirit of this son of Belllounds.  Luck, misleading and alluring, favored Jack for a while, transforming him until he was radiant, boastful, exultant.  Then it changed, as did his expression.  His face grew dark.

“I tell you I want drink,” he suddenly demanded.  “I know damn well you cowpunchers have some here, for I smelled it when I came in.”

“Jack, we drank the last drop,” replied Jim, who seemed less stiff than his two bunk-mates.

“I’ve some very old rye,” interposed Wade, looking at Jim, but apparently addressing all.  “Fine stuff, but awful strong an’ hot!...  Makes a fellow’s blood dance.”

“Go get it!” Belllounds’s utterance was thick and full, as if he had something in his mouth.

Wade looked down into the heated face, into the burning eyes; and through the darkness of passion that brooked no interference with its fruition he saw this youth’s stark and naked soul.  Wade had seen into the depths of many such abysses.

“See hyar, Wade,” broke in Jim, with his quiet force, “never mind fetchin’ thet red-hot rye to-night.  Some other time, mebbe, when Jack wants more satisfaction.  Reckon we’ve got a drop or so left.”