There was no shout of laughter--no cheer for that fall, and without a
smile they watched Strann returning. Big O'Brien had seen from his open
door and now he laid a hand on the shoulder of one of the men and
whispered at his ear: "There's going to be trouble; bad trouble, Billy.
Go for Fatty Matthews--he's a deputy marshal now--and get him here as
quick as you can. Run!"
The other spared time for a last glance at Strann and then hurried down
the street.
Now, a man who can lose and smile is generally considered the most
graceful of failures, but the smile of Jerry Strann as he walked slowly
back worried his followers.
"We all hit dust sometime," he philosophized. "But one try don't prove
nothin'. I ain't near through with that hoss!"
Barry turned to Strann. If there had been mockery in his eyes or a
smile on his lips as he faced Jerry there would have been a gun play on
the spot; but, instead, the brown eyes were as dumbly apologetic as
ever.
"We didn't talk about two tries," he observed.
"We talk about it now," said Strann.
There was one man in the crowd a little too old to be dangerous and
therefore there was one man who was in a position to speak openly to
Strann. It was big O'Brien.
"Jerry, you named your game and made your play and lost. I guess you
ain't going to turn up a hard loser. Nobody plays twice for the same
pot."
The hazel eye of Strann was grey with anguish of the spirit as he looked
from O'Brien to the crowd and from the crowd to Satan, and from Satan to
his meek-eyed owner.
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