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.
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