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Updated: May 13, 2025
Slavens passed his hand with tentative pressure over the soiled bandage which bound his brow, feeling with finger and thumb along the dark stain which traced what it hid from sight. Shanklin! That would explain some things, many things. Perhaps all things. He stood there, counting on his fingers like a schoolboy, frowning as he counted. One two three. The third day that was the third day.
He was caught in his own trap by a sharper man than himself, a being that up to that minute he had believed the world could not produce. Dr. Slavens quickly gathered the money. The others around the table, blazing now in their desire to get a division of fortune's favors, put down their bets and called loudly for the gamekeeper to cover them.
Axel Peterson had stood gaping, his card with numbers on it also in his hand, held up at a convenient angle for his eyes. Dr. Slavens had read them as he pushed Peterson aside, and the first two figures on the other man's card all that Slavens could hastily glimpse were the same.
Ten-Gallon chuckled a deep, fat, well-contented little laugh. "Pardner," said he admiringly, "you certainly are one smart guy!" Ten-Gallon rode on in his quest of Boyle, while Slavens sat again beside his fire, which he allowed to burn down to coals.
Slavens straightened up and gave his backer two gentle prods in the ribs, which was the signal agreed upon to let the other know that the scheme was in working order, and that something was due to happen. He counted down one hundred dollars and stood expectant, while Shanklin held his hand over the mouth of the dicebox and looked at him with contemptuous reproach. "No, you don't!
The knocks which he had taken there in those few weeks had cracked the insulation of hopelessness which the frost of his profitless years had thickened upon him. Now it had fallen away, leaving him light and fresh for the battle. Agnes had said little about the money which Dr. Slavens had taken from Shanklin at the gambler's own crooked game.
I've got fifty thousand sheep on the range up there, average four dollars a head, and I'd hand half of 'em over to you right now if you'd show me how you turned that trick. That was the slickest thing I ever saw!" "It wouldn't do you any good at all to know how it was done," said Slavens, "for it was a trick for the occasion and the man we worked it on.
There was a great deal owing to him yet from that man, in spite of what he had forced Shanklin to pay, and he meant to collect the balance before he left that state. So the rifle practice went ahead, day by day, supplemented by a turn now and then with Hun Shanklin's old black pistol, which Mackenzie had turned over to Slavens as part of his lawful spoil. While Dr.
Yet he took up that matter with the little lawyer, whose blond hair stood out in seven directions when Slavens told him of the felonious attack and the brutal disposition of what they had doubtless believed to be his lifeless body. The county attorney shook his head and showed an immediate disposition to get rid of Slavens when the story was done.
Slavens slid along to his place. Smith handed the physician the lines and took the big revolver from its pocket by the seat. "Two fellers on horseback," said he, keeping his eyes sharply on the boulder-hedged road, "has been dodgin' along the top of that ridge kind of suspicious.
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