his coat now, the fingers locked to the grip of his automatic. "So, Joe Embry? Walk easy, Joe; talk easy, and don't make a mistake. Bill, rake in what's ours and count it."
Bill Rice, outright after his fashion, drew in the money with one hand, his left, while in full sight of him who cared to see was Bill Rice's old style Colt forty-five, very still in his right hand. And out of the corner of his alert eyes Rice, too, watched Embry and Truitt and the lookout.
"Fair play!" shouted a big voice. "He's won it. Take it, Steele. We're with you."
"Thanks," Steele answered. "I'm taking it."
Embry, beside himself for one of the few occasions in his life, drew and fired. But a disinterested onlooker had seized him by the shoulders and jerked him backward, the bullet tore into the ceiling and Embry disappeared under three or four men who had thrown themselves upon him.
"Take it, friend," droned the dealer. "It's yours and I wouldn't wait too long. Hey, barkeep, gimme another shot Shasta."
Steele and Rice were accompanied to the cabin by half a dozen of Rice's friends. To a man they were exuberant that a game run in a house of Flash Truitt … or Joe Embry … should be made to pay. Doubly exuberant as Steele thanked them for their company. For as they departed every man of them carried in his pocket a little gift, and each gift was of one hundred dollars.
