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Updated: June 21, 2025
Cards, under the laws of Texas, are taboo, but for some reason Sabota managed to get by and games were allowed in his place. The two cowboys the Ramblin' Kid had mentioned, a rancher from the irrigated section near Eagle Butte and "Jeff" Henderson, one of Sabota's henchmen, who was playing for the house, were sitting in at the game.
A couple of traveling men, waiting for the early morning train, were playing a listless game of billiards at one of the tables; a pair of Jap sugar-beet workers and a negro section hand sat half-asleep and leaned against the wall; "Red" Jackson, Sabota's chief lieutenant, with an air of utter boredom, lounged behind the soft-drink bar. Sabota was not there. "What's happened to everybody?"
The two reeled back and forth, crashing chairs and tables to the floor, and lunged against the bar. The Ramblin' Kid's gun fell from its scabbard at the side of the brass foot-rail. Sabota's eyes glared down into the face of the man he was choking to death gleaming with the ferocity of an animal gone mad Awhile bloody foam spewed from his bleeding lips.
Sabota's great hands worked convulsively, eager to grasp and crush his wiry opponent; the Ramblin' Kid, with lips curled back from white teeth, like a pure-bred terrier circling a mastiff, bent forward, every muscle tense as drawn copper, his eyes cold as a rattler's as he searched for a place to strike!
"Reckon we'd better go back down to Sabota's," the Ramblin' Kid said as they turned their horses in the direction of the pool-room, "if you still insist on makin' a blamed fool of yourself an' gettin' drunk. Maybe Mike's back by now. Anyhow, there might be a little poker game goin' on I saw a couple of the fellers from over on th' Purgatory come in a while ago!"
Here and there a blaze of light from a store window invited belated passers to covet the bargains offered within; a half-dozen incandescent bulbs, swung on cross-wires at intervals along the street, glowed feebly as if weary with the effort to beat back the darkness clutching at the throat of the town; over the sidewalk in front of the Elite Amusement Parlor an illuminated red and green sign told that Mike Sabota's place was still open; across the porch of the Occidental Hotel and spilling itself on the ground out in the street a stream of light guided weary travelers to the portals of that ancient, though hospitable, institution; from the sides of the Butte beyond the railroad tracks a coyote yelped shrilly a jerky, wailing challenge a dozen dogs, suddenly aroused in different parts of the town, answered.
"Keep back, y' sons-of-hell!" he snarled, "Sabota's gettin' what's coming to him!" The Greek's eyes opened. His fingers touched the butt of the Ramblin' Kid's revolver and began to close slowly over the handle of the weapon. "Make him quit," one of the pool-room loafers whined; "he's killed him!" The Ramblin' Kid saw Sabota reach for the gun.
Instantly the Quarter Circle KT cowboy's forty-four was jerked from its holster and the blue-steel barrel swung against the side of the bartender's head. He pitched over in a limp heap and the bottle crushed against the brass foot-rail, breaking into a thousand fragments. A half-dozen of Sabota's crowd started forward. Skinny's gun whipped around in front of him.
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