He took a place beside the bow-legged vaquero
with the yellow bandanna knotted loosely round his throat. For
five minutes the cow-puncher attended strictly to his bets. Then
he cursed softly, and asked Collins to exchange places with him.
"This place is my hoodoo. I can't win--" The sentence died in the
man's throat, became an inarticulate gurgle of dismay.
He had looked up and met the steady eyes of the sheriff, and the
surprise of it had driven the blood from his heart. A revolver
thrust into his face could not have shaken him more than that
serene smile.
Collins took him by the arm with a jovial laugh meant to cover
their retreat, and led him into one of the curtained alcove
rooms. As they entered he noticed out of the corner of his eye
that Leroy and Neil were still intent on their game. Not for a
moment, not even while the barkeeper was answering their call for
liquor, did the sheriff release Scott from the rigor of his eyes,
and when the attendant drew the curtain behind him the officer
let his smile take on a new meaning.
"What did I tell you, Scott?"
"Prove it," defied Scott. "Prove it--you can't prove it.
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