Gulden rose, slow, heavy, ponderous, to tower over his heap of gold.  Then this giant, who had never shown an emotion, suddenly, terribly blazed.

“One more bet—­a cut of the cards—­my whole stake of gold!” he boomed.

The bandits took a stride forward as one man, then stood breathless.

“One bet!” echoed Kells, aghast.  “Against what?”

“Against the girl!”

Joan sank against the wall, a piercing torture in her breast.  She clutched the logs to keep from falling.  So that was the impending horror.  She could not unrivet her eyes from the paralyzed Kells, yet she seemed to see Jim Cleve leap straight up, and then stand, equally motionless, with Kells.

“One cut of the cards—­my gold against the girl!” boomed the giant.

Kells made a movement as if to go for his gun.  But it failed.  His hand was a shaking leaf.

“You always bragged on your nerve!” went on Gulden, mercilessly.  “You’re the gambler of the border! ...  Come on.”

Kells stood there, his doom upon him.  Plain to all was his torture, his weakness, his defeat.  It seemed that with all his soul he combated something, only to fail.

“One cut—­my gold against your girl!”

The gang burst into one concerted taunt.  Like snarling, bristling wolves they craned their necks at Kells.

“No, damn—­you!  No!” cried Kells, in hoarse, broken fury.  With both hands before him he seemed to push back the sight of that gold, of Gulden, of the malignant men, of a horrible temptation.

“Reckon, boss, thet yellow streak is operatin’!” sang out Jesse Smith.

But neither gold, nor Gulden, nor men, nor taunts ruined Kells at this perhaps most critical crisis of his life.  It was the mad, clutching, terrible opportunity presented.  It was the strange and terrible nature of the wager.  What vision might have flitted through the gambler’s mind!  But neither vision of loss nor gain moved him.  There, licking like a flame at his soul, consuming the good in him at a blast, overpowering his love, was the strange and magnificent gamble.  He could not resist it.

Speechless, with a motion of his hand, he signified his willingness.

“Blicky, shuffle the cards,” boomed Gulden.

Blicky did so and dropped the deck with a slap in the middle of the table.

“Cut!” called Gulden.

Kells’s shaking hand crept toward the deck.

Jim Cleve suddenly appeared to regain power of speech and motion. 
“Don’t, Kells, don’t!” he cried, piercingly, as he leaped forward.

But neither Kells nor the others heard him, or even saw his movement.

Kells cut the deck.  He held up his card.  It was the king of hearts.  What a transformation!  His face might have been that of a corpse suddenly revivified with glorious, leaping life.