The bartender turned away, rubbing his chin with one finger, as though perplexed. VB dealt, and with lightning agility. He even broke in on the silence of the playing with senseless chatter when the drinks were brought. He held his cards high that he might not see the gla.s.ses, and was glad that the men did not drink at once. Nor did they drink for many moments. The opener was raised twice; few cards were drawn. A check pa.s.sed one man, the next bet, the next raised, and VB, the deal, came in.

The opener raised again and the bartender, seeing, stepped across to watch. The drowsy lounger, sensing the drift of the game, rose to look on.

VB dropped out. He held threes, but felt that they had no place in that game. The betting went on and on, up and up, three men bent on raising, the fourth following, intent on having a look, anyhow. VB threw his cards down and dropped his hands loosely on the table. The back of his right hand touched a cold object. He looked down quickly. It was resting against a whisky gla.s.s.

"And ten more," a player said.

"Ten--and another ten." More chips rattled into the pile.

His hand stole back and hot fingers reached out to touch with sensitive tips that cool surface. His nostrils worked to catch the scent of the stuff. His hand was around the gla.s.s.

"I'm staying."

"You are--for five more."

VB's fingers tightened about the thing, squeezed it in the palm of his hand. It had felt cool at first; now it was like fire. The muscles of that arm strove to lift it. His inner mind struggled, declared against the intention, weakened, yielded, and--

"Well, I'm through. Fight it out."

The man at VB's right dropped his cards in disgust and with a quick movement reached for his drink.

His nervous, hot hand closed on VB's and their surprised glances met.

"Excuse me," muttered VB.

"Sure!" said the other, surly over his lost stake, and gulped down the whisky.

Two of the players went broke in that pot. The fourth had a scant remnant of his original stack left, and VB was loser. The two who had failed shoved back their hats and yawned, almost simultaneously.

"How about it?" asked the winner, stacking his chips.

"I'm satisfied," said the man at VB's right.

"And VB?"

"Here, too!"

The boy sat back in his chair with a long-drawn breath after shoving his chips across to be cashed. He pushed his hat back for the first time, and a man across the table stared hard as he saw the harried face. The others were busy, cashing in.

"Just get in, VB?" some one asked.

He heard the question through a tumult. His muscles had already contracted in the first movement of rising; his will already directed his feet across the room to the bar to answer the call of those searching bottle eyes. Inwardly he raged at himself for holding off so long, for wasting those months, for letting that other new thing come into his life only to be torn away again; when it all meant mere delay, a drawing out of suffering! Only half consciously he framed the answer:

"Yes, I rode down to-night."

"Goin' on out?"

"What?" he asked, forcing his mind to give heed to the other.

"Goin' on out, or goin' to hang around a while?"

"I don't know." The boy got to his feet, and the reply was given with rare bitterness. "I don't know," he said again, voice mounting. "I may go out--and I may not. I may hang around a while, and it mayn't take long. I'm here to finish something I started a long time ago, something that I've been putting off. I'm going to put a stop to a lying, hypocritical existence. I'm--"

He broke off thickly and moved away from the table.

No imagination created a hush this time. On his words the counting of chips ceased. They looked at him, seeing utter desperation, and not understanding.

A face outside that had been pressed close to a window was lowered, darkness hiding the glitter of green eyes and the leering smile of triumph. A figure slunk along carefully to the corner of the building and joined two others.

It was his chance! Rhues was out to get his man this moonlight night, and there was now no danger. Young VB was no longer afraid to take a drink. He would give up his fight, give up his hard-wrung freedom, and when drunken men go down, shot in a quarrel, there is always cause. He had him now!

VB lurched across the room toward the bar. In mid-floor he paused, turned, and faced those at the poker table.

"Don't mistake me," he said with a grin. "Don't think I'm talking against any man in the country. It's myself, boys--just _me_. I'm the liar, the hypocrite. I've tried to lie myself into being what I never can be. I've come out here among you to go by the name of the outfit I ride for. You don't know me, don't even know my name, say nothing of my own rotten self. Well, you're going to know me as I am."

He swung around to face the bar. The bartender pulled nervously on his mustache.

"What'll it be, VB?" he asked, surprised knowledge sending the professional question to his lips.

"The first thing you come to," the boy muttered, and grasped the bar for support.

CHAPTER XXI

Guns Crash

Out in the shadow of the building three men huddled close together, talking in whispers--Rhues, Matson, and the Mexican. Rhues had watched the progress of the poker game, waiting the chance he had tried to seek out ever since that day up at Avery's when he had been beaten down by the flailing fists of that tall young tenderfoot. He had seen VB start for the bar; he knew the hour had struck.

"We've got him!" he whispered. "He won't get away this time. They won't be no mistakes."

"S-s-s-s!" the Greaser warned.

"Aw, n.o.body'll ever know," Rhues scoffed in an undertone. "They'll never know that unless you spill. An' if you do--it'll mean three of us to th' gallows, unless--we're lynched first!"

Silence a moment, and they heard VB's voice raised. Then Rhues whispered his quick plans.

"Take it easy," he warned in conclusion. "Don't start nothin'. Let him git drunk; then he'll do th' startin' an' it'll be easy."

Inside a bottle was thumped on the bar, a gla.s.s beside it. Feverishly VB reached for both, lifting the gla.s.s with uncertain hand, tilting the bottle from the bar, not trusting his quaking muscles to raise it. The neck touched the gla.s.s with a dull clink; the mouth of the bottle gurgled greedily as the first of the liquor ran out--for all the world as if it had waited these months for that chuckle of triumph.

And then that romanticism of youth came to the surface of his seething thoughts again. It would be the closing of a chapter, that drink. It was for her sake he would lift it to his lips. He wanted to bid her a last, bitter farewell. She was over there, far across the hills, sleeping and dreaming--with her golden hair--over there in the northeast. He laughed harshly, set the bottle back on the bar, and turned his face in her direction.

Those who watched from the other end of the room saw him turn his head unsteadily; saw the sudden tenseness which spread through his frame, stiffening those faltering knees. He turned slowly toward the door and thrust his face forward as though to study and make certain that he saw rightly.

Like a rush of fire the realization swept through him. A man stood there in the moonlight, and the sheen from the heavens was caught on the dull barrel of a gun in his hand.