“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.

Kirby strode to him; before other hands could come to Rouletta’s assistance and bear him out of reach he twice buried his heavy hobnailed boot in the prostrate figure.  He presented a terrible exhibition of animal ferocity, for he was growling oaths deep in his throat and in his eyes was the light of murder.  He fought for liberty with which to finish his task, and those who restrained him found that somehow he had managed to draw an ivory-handled six-shooter from some place of concealment.  Nor could they wrench the weapon away from him.

“He insulted my kid—­my girl Letty!” Kirby muttered, hoarsely.

When the fallen man had been lifted to his feet and hurried out of the saloon old Sam tried his best to follow, but his captors held him fast.  They pleaded with him, they argued, they pacified him as well as they could.  It was a long time, however, before they dared trust him alone with Rouletta, and even then they turned watchful eyes in his direction.

“I didn’t want anything to happen.”  The girl spoke listlessly.

Kirby began to rumble again, but she interrupted him.  “It wasn’t the man’s fault.  It was a perfectly natural mistake on his part, and I’ve learned to expect such things.  I—­I’m sick, dad.  You must find a place for me, quick.”