High play was going on
in the saloon, and a good many men were clustered round the table,
Red George was having a run of luck, and there was a big pile
of gold dust on the table before him. One of the gamblers who was
losing had ordered old rye, and instead of bringing it to him, Dick
brought a tumbler of hot liquor which someone else had called for.
With an oath the man took it up and threw it in his face.
"You cowardly hound!" Red George exclaimed. "Are you man enough to
do that to a man?"
"You bet," the gambler, who was a new arrival at Pine Tree Gulch,
replied; and picking up an empty glass, he hurled it at Red George.
The bystanders sprang aside, and in a moment the two men were
facing each other with outstretched pistols. The two reports rung
out simultaneously: Red George sat down unconcernedly with a streak
of blood flowing down his face, where the bullet had cut a furrow
in his cheek; the stranger fell back with a bullet hole in the
center of his forehead.
The body was carried outside, and the play continued as if no interruption
had taken place. They were accustomed to such occurrences in Pine
Tree Gulch, and the piece of ground at the top of the hill, that
had been set aside as a burial place, was already dotted thickly
with graves, filled in almost every instance by men who had died,
in the local phraseology, "with their boots on.
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