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.

“Let’s get down to cases,” the cowpuncher continued.  “I kind of got the Greaser into this here jack-pot an’ it’s up to me to get him out.  He lays four bits on the thirteen—­she pays thirty-five—­that’s seventeen-fifty.  Eighteen, as she lays.  The blame fool leaves it lay an’ she win again—­that’s thirty-five times eighteen.  Good Lord!  An’ without no pencil an’ paper!  We’ll cut her up in chunks an’ tackle her:  let’s see, ten times eighteen is one-eighty, an’ three times that is—­three times the hundred is three hundred, and three times the eighty