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Opal McCoppet, and one Searle Bostwick, of New York, have stolen my claim by corrupting Lawrence for twenty thousand dollars, running a false reservation line, and maybe putting Culver out of the way because he was square in his business." Christler paused in the act of biting his cracker. "What!" "There's going to be something doing, Bill," Van added, leaning forward on the table.
Bostwick glanced at him with newer interest as they passed down the room, and so to a tight little office the walls of which were specially deadened against the transmission of sound. "Have anything to drink?" inquired the owner, before he took a chair, " whiskey, wine?" "Thanks, no," said Bostwick, "not just yet." He took the chair to which McCoppet waved him.
"Ain't ready to shake, jest yet," he said. "I come here to see you on business." "That's all right, Larry," answered McCoppet. "That's all right. Sit down." "I'm goin' to," announced his visitor. He took a chair, pulled out a giant cigar, and lighting it up smoked like a pile of burning leaves.
McCoppet was left there staring where he had gone staring and afraid of what the results would probably be to all the game. He had no eyes to behold a man who had suddenly discerned him from the crowds. A moment later he started violently as a huge form stood in the door. "Trimmer!" he said, "I'm busy!"
McCoppet was moving on again. "I own the game." He owned everything here, and had his designs on two more places like it, down the street. He almost owned the souls of many men, but gold and power were the goals on which his eyes were riveted.
"You don't mean to say this accident this crime is fortunate, after all?" "It's a godsend." McCoppet would have dared any blasphemy. Bostwick's relief was inordinate. "Then what is the next thing to do?" "Wait for Lawrence," said the gambler. Then he suddenly arose. "No, we can't afford the time. He might be a week in coming. You'll have to go get him, to-morrow." "Where is he, then?"
Trimmer had smoked his cigar to within an inch of his mouth. He extinguished the fire and chewed up the stump voraciously. "Say!" he suddenly ejaculated, leaping to his feet and coming around the table, "I can fix him all right," and he lowered his voice to a whisper. "Barger would give up a leg to git a show at Van Buren!" "Barger?" echoed McCoppet. "Matt? But they got him! Got 'em all."
I got you here to give you a chance to put Van Buren out of commission and make a lifetime winning." Culver looked at him sharply. "It must be something crooked." "Nothing's crooked that works out straight," said McCoppet. "What's life anyhow but a sure-thing game? It's stacked for us all to lose out in the end.
But the fellow crowded his cigar stump in his mouth, with fire and all, and chewed it up as he was dying. "Good shot," said McCoppet faintly. His head went forward on his breast and he crumpled on the floor. Van was conveyed to Mrs. Dick's. The fever attacked him in his helplessness and delirium claimed him for its own.
He was still red with anger, and meditating personal violence to Van at the earliest possible meeting. McCoppet, with his smokeless cigar in his mouth, and his great opal sentient with fire, received his visitor in the little private den to which Bostwick had been taken. "How are you, Culver?" he said off-handedly. "I wanted to have a little talk.
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