Rimrock Jones. Coolidge Dane
back in his eyes. "You're bad now, ain't you?" he continued tauntingly. "You're just feeling awful! You're going to jump on Lon Lockhart and stomp him into the ground! Huh!"
"Aw, shut your mouth!" answered Rimrock defiantly, "I never said a word about fight."
"Uhhr!" grunted L. W. and put his hand in his pocket at which Rimrock became suddenly expectant.
"Henry Jones," began the banker, "I knowed your father and he was an honorable, hardworking man. You're nothing but a bum and you're getting worse—why don't you go and put up that gun?"
"I don't have to!" retorted Rimrock but he moved up closer and there was a wheedling turn to his voice. "Just two thousand dollars, Lon—that's all I ask of you—and I'll give you a share in my mine. Didn't I come to you first, when I discovered the Gunsight, and give you the very best claim? And you ditched me, L. W., dad-burn you, you know it; you sold me out to McBain. But I've got something now that runs up into millions! All it needs is a little more work!"
"Yes, and forty miles of railroad," put in L. W. intolerantly. "I wouldn't take the whole works for a gift!"
"No, but Lon, I'm lucky—you know that yourself—I can go East and sell the old mine."
"Oh, you're lucky, are you?" interrupted L. W. "Well, how come then that you're standing here, broke? But here, I've got business, I'll give you ten dollars—and remember, it's the last that you get!"
He drew out a bill, but Rimrock stood looking at him with a slow and contemptuous smile.
"Yes, you doggoned old screw," he answered ungraciously, "what good will ten dollars do?"
"You can get just as drunk on that," replied L. W. pointedly, "as you could on a hundred thousand!"
A change came over Rimrock's face, the swift mirroring of some great idea, and he reached out and grabbed the money.
"Where you going?" demanded L. W. as he started across the street.
"None of your business," answered Rimrock curtly, but he headed straight for the Mint.
CHAPTER II
WHEN RICHES FLY
The Mint was Gunsight's only gambling house. It had a bar, of course, and a Mexican string band that played from eight o'clock on; besides a roulette wheel, a crap table, two faro layouts, and monte for the Mexicans. But the afternoon was dull and the faro dealer was idly shuffling a double stack of chips when Rimrock brushed in through the door. Half an hour afterwards the place was crowded and all the games were running big. Such is the force of example—especially when you win.
Rimrock threw his bill on the table, bought a stack of white chips, placed it on the queen and told the dealer to turn 'em. The queen won and Rimrock took his chips and played as the spirit moved. He won more, for the house was unlucky from the start, and soon others began to ride his bets. If he bet on the seven, eager hands reached over his shoulder and placed more chips on the seven. Petty winners drifted off to try their luck at monte, the sports took a flier at roulette; and as the gambling spirit, so subtly fed, began to rise to a fever, Rimrock Jones, the cause of all this heat, bet more and more—and still won.
It was at the height of the excitement when, with half of the checks in the rack in front of him, Rimrock was losing and winning by turns, that the bull-like rumble of L. W. Lockhart came drifting in to him above the clamor of the crowd.
"Why don't you quit, you fool?" the deep voice demanded. "Cash in and quit—you've got your stake!"
Rimrock made a gesture of absent-minded impatience and watched the slow turn of the cards. Not even the dealer or the hawk-eyed lookout was more intently absorbed in the game. He knew every card that had been played and he bet where the odds were best. Every so often a long, yellow hand reached past him and laid a bet by his stake. It was the hand of a Chinaman, those most passionate of faro players, and at such times, seeing it follow his luck, the face of Rimrock lightened up with the semblance of a smile. He called the last turn and they paused for the drinks, while the dealer mopped his brow.
"Where's Ike?" he demanded. "Well, somebody call him—he's hiding out, asleep, upstairs."
"Yes, wake him up!" shouted Rimrock boastfully. "Tell him Rimrock Jones is here."
"Aw, pull out, you sucker!" blared L. W. in his ear, but Rimrock only shoved out his bets.
"Ten on the ace," droned the anxious dealer, "the jack is coppered. All down?"
He held up his hand and as the betting ceased he slowly pushed out the two cards.
"Tray loses, ace wins!" he announced and Rimrock won again.
Then he straightened up purposefully and looked about as he sorted his winnings into piles.
"The whole works on the queen," he said to the dealer and a hush fell upon the crowd.
"Where's Ike?" shrilled the dealer, but the boss was not to be found and he dealt, unwillingly, for a queen. But the fear was on him and his thin hands trembled; for Ike Bray was not the type of your frozen-faced gambler—he expected his dealers to win. The dealer shoved them out, and an oath slipped past his lips.
"Queen wins," he quavered, "the bank is broke." And he turned the box on its side.
A shout went up—the glad yell of the multitude—and Rimrock rose up grinning.
"Who said to pull out?" he demanded arrogantly, looking about for the glowering L. W. "Huh, huh!" he chuckled, "quit your luck when you're winning? Quit your luck and your luck will quit you—the drinks for the house, barkeep!"
He was standing at the bar, stuffing money into his pockets, when Ike Bray, the proprietor, appeared. Rimrock turned, all smiles, as he heard his voice on the stairs and lolled back against the bar. More than once in the past Bray had taken his roll but now it was his turn to laugh.
"Lemme see," he remarked as he felt Bray's eyes upon him, "I wonder how much I win."
He drew out the bills from his faded overalls and began laboriously to count them out into his hat.
Ike Bray stopped and looked at him, a little, twisted man with his hair still rumpled from the bed.
"Where's that dealer?" he shrilled in his high, complaining voice. "I'll kill the danged piker—that bank ain't broke yet—I got a big roll, right here!"
He waved it in the air and came limping forward until he stood facing Rimrock Jones.
"You think you broke me, do you?" he demanded insolently as Rimrock looked up from his count.
"You can see for yourself," answered Rimrock contentedly, and held out his well-filled hat.
"You're a piker!" yelled Bray. "You don't dare to come back at me. I'll play you one turn win or lose—for your pile!"
A hundred voices rang out at once, giving Rimrock all kinds of advice, but L. W.'s rose above them all.
"Don't you do it!" he roared. "He'll clean you, for a certainty!" But Rimrock's blue eyes were aflame.
"All right, Mr. Man," he answered on the instant, and went over and sat down in his chair. "But bring me a new pack and shuffle 'em clean, and I'll do the cutting myself."
"Ahhr!" snarled Bray, who was in villainous humor, as he hurled himself into his place. "Y'needn't make no cracks—I'm on the square—and I'll take no lip from anybody!"
"Well, shuffle 'em up then," answered Rimrock quietly, "and when I feel like it I'll make my bet."
It was the middle of the night, as Bray's days were divided, and even yet he was hardly awake; but he shuffled the cards until Rimrock was satisfied and then locked them into the box. The case-keeper sat opposite, to keep track of the cards, and a look-out on the stand at one end, and while a mob of surging onlookers