The Project Gutenberg ebook of Gambler's dollar This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook. Title: Gambler's dollar Author: W. C. Tuttle Release Date: February 16, 2023 [eBook #70051] Language: English Original Publication: Popular Publications, Inc, Chicago, IL, United States (1940) Produced by: Roger Frank and Sue Clark *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GAMBLER'S DOLLAR *** GAMBLER’S DOLLAR [Illustration: “I’ve still got one shell left!”] GAMBLER’S DOLLAR By W. C. TUTTLE Flint Orr, sheriff of Mojave Wells, awoke slowly and painfully. A heavy weight seemed to bear down upon his brain, as his mouth was as dry as ashes. He tried to remember what he had drunk or ate, but his memory was blank as to details. Painfully he rolled over on his side, staring red-eyed at the battered alarm clock on the little table near the bed. “Nine o’clock,” he muttered. He was in his own bedroom, sprawled in all his clothes. Not even his boots had been removed. He lifted a heavy head and looked at the boots. Not for years had he been so drunk that he forgot to undress. But had he been drunk? He rubbed the stubble on his heavy chin. Of course he had not been drunk. Why, he hadn’t been drunk in three years, not since he became sheriff. He had sworn off drinking at that time. But what was wrong with everything? Why was he in bed, fully dressed, at nine o’clock in the morning? He listened closely, but there was not a sound in the house except the ticking of that confounded clock. With a sweep of his big right hand, he knocked it off on the floor, where it ceased to tick. Funny that there should be no noise in the house. Ann should be doing her work. Flint Orr licked his parched lips. Where was Ann? Damn it, he was tired of her whining. Couldn’t she understand that a sheriff must do his duty, even to hanging his own son for murder? Blood didn’t make any difference. Harry Orr had killed, just like any other man might kill, and he must pay the penalty. Women have strange ideas of duty. He managed to swing his feet off the bed, where he sat, holding a throbbing head between his hands. Flint Orr was a huge man, thewed like a bull, with a huge mane of iron-gray hair on his large head, like the roach on a grizzly. His face was heavy, his eyes small and brown, under bushy brows, and he never seemed to laugh. Men hated and respected him--hated him for his bull-headed, ruthless way of serving the law, but respected him for his honesty of purpose. Ann Orr, his wife, barely past thirty, was loved by everyone--except, possibly, Flint Orr. Harry Orr was not her son, but she had fought tooth and nail to save him from the gallows. Flint Orr did not admire her for this. In fact, he resented it. There was no question of Harry’s guilt. Harry worked for the Circle Seven cattle outfit, ten miles north of Mojave Wells. Harry and Ed Belt, the foreman, had quarreled over a girl, and came to blows at the ranch. Harry had followed Belt to Mojave Wells, where they quarreled again over a poker game, but others intervened, stopping possible gunplay. Later that evening Harry Orr and Ed Belt went to get their horses, when several shots were fired. Harry, who had been drinking heavily, staggered into the Trail Herd Saloon, babbling that Ed Belt had been killed. His own gun was reeking of freshly-burned powder, but he told a vague tale of shooting at the man who had shot Belt. Belt was killed by a .45 bullet--and Harry carried a forty-five Colt. Flint Orr lifted his head, listened again, swore painfully and got to his feet. There was a coffee cup and saucer on the table, still stained from coffee. Flint Orr tried to remember that Ann had fixed a cup of coffee for him, when he was ready for bed. No, that wasn’t it. He was always in the habit of getting up at six o’clock. Then he remembered. “I got up and dressed,” he told himself. “It was before six. Ann had the coffee all made, and gave me a cup. But--what the hell!” His eyes caught sight of a sheet of paper, braced against the lamp. On it was written in pencil; Don’t look for me—ever. I have gone away, because I can’t stand it any longer. Ann. Flint Orr’s jaw sagged as he read the message. “Gone away?” he questioned aloud. “Why, she never----” Overtaken by a sudden rage, he tore the paper into bits, flinging them aside, and went striding into the kitchen. There was no sign that breakfast had been prepared. A cigar butt was balanced on the edge of the wood stove. Flint Orr did not smoke. Cursing bitterly, he yanked his sombrero over his eyes and headed for the main street, staggering just a little bit. His head still ached, and his knees were none too strong. He found Jack Handley, his deputy, waiting in front of the office, which was part of the jail. In a fenced-in vacant lot beside the jail, was the roughed-in gallows, where Harry Orr was to pay the penalty of his crime. Jack Handley looked curiously at Flint Orr. “I was just about to come lookin’ for yuh, Flint,” he said. “Couldn’t feed the prisoner until yuh came with the keys.” Flint Orr was feeling in his pockets for the keys, a scowl on his face. “Did Ann go away on a visit?” asked Handley. “Eh?” grunted the sheriff. “What about Ann?” “Billy Hart, over at the livery-stable, said that he seen her ridin’ away with a feller early this mornin’, goin’ toward Painted Rock.” Flint Orr stared at his deputy. “What feller?” he asked dully. “Billy didn’t say. What’s the matter with yuh, Flint? Man, yuh look like the breakin’ up of a hard winter.” The sheriff shook his head, like a fighter, trying to rid his brain of a numbing shock. “I ain’t got no keys,” he said huskily. “I had ’em some’ers----” “You shore look like you’ve been doped, Flint.” Doped! That was it. That coffee. It tasted queer, too, come to think of it. But why? Flint turned and staggered down toward the gallows, where he stopped below a barred window. “Harry!” he called. “Harry Orr! Come to the window!” But Harry Orr did not come to the window, because Harry Orr was not in that cell. With a hammer from the blacksmith shop, they broke open the office door. A glance showed that the cells were empty. Gray-faced, Flint Orr slumped at his desk, and cursed the woman he had married. She had doped his coffee, stolen his keys, turned a murderer loose, and ran away with another man. The curious crowd silently moved away, leaving only Jack Handley, the deputy. Finally Flint Orr jumped to his feet, facing Handley. “Why don’t you do somethin’?” he roared. “Why in hell don’t you say somethin’?” “All I’ve got to say is that--mebbe she’s right, Flint.” Flint Orr smashed the smaller man on the jaw, knocking him against the office wall, and as Handley swayed uncertainly, Flint Orr forcibly tore the insignia of office from Handley’s shirt and flung him aside. Then he walked out and went straight to his little stable, where he saddled his fastest horse, Red Shadow. He shoved a rifle into his saddle-scabbard, belted an extra supply of cartridges around his waist, and got heavily into the saddle. Jack Handley staggered out onto the sidewalk as the sheriff rode past. “Poor fool,” muttered Handley, rubbing a swelling jaw. “Headin’ into the old Mojave, without even a canteen of water.” But Flint Orr knew where he was going. Twenty miles away in Jackass Canyon, Harry Orr owned a prospect hole and a dugout shack. This was where Harry Orr would go. He always kept food and guns there. “I’ll get him,” swore the sheriff between clenched teeth. “No man ever got away from me. And then I’ll find that woman and her feller, if I have to comb the whole damn world.” After a mile gallop Red Shadow drew down to a walk. A hundred and twenty in the shade--and no shade--quickly takes the run out of even a desert-raised horse. But they were many miles from Mojave Wells before the sheriff realized that he had no water. No use going back now. He dimly remembered something that Harry had said about there not being any water at the mine, and that he had to pack in what he used. Flint Orr cursed bitterly, his eyes on the break in the distant line of hills marking Jackass Canyon. He’d find Harry there and bring him back, dead or alive. He’d show Mojave Wells that kinship meant nothing in the line of duty. Then he cursed Ann, the woman who had betrayed him. Ann was still young, still beautiful--damn her soul! He tried to puzzle out just who the man might be. It could be one of many men. But no matter. He would kill that man. But first he must recapture Harry Orr. Duty first, domestic troubles later. * * * * * Far out on the road toward Painted Rock a team and buckboard went slowly along in the dazzling heat and sandy dust. A young man and a young-looking woman were on the seat. In the back was a weather-beaten trunk and some dusty-looking packages. A canteen dangled from the back of the seat. The man said; “I feel yuh done wrong, Ann. You ain’t got no place to go.” “Any place is better than where I lived,” the woman replied, her eyes fixed ahead. “I couldn’t stand it, Harry.” “Yeah, I know,” he said gently. “But look at us, Ann. I’m a fugitive from justice, a condemned murderer. You’ve quit my father, and you ain’t got any place to go. No money, nothin’. Mebbe we can beat the news to Painted Rock. I can climb on a freight train and try to get out of the country. But what about you, Ann?” “Don’t worry about me, Harry. I’ll get along. No job on earth, would be as hard as living with a man who thinks so much of duty that he’d hang his own son. Duty! My God, where does duty stop or begin?” Harry Orr unhooked the canteen and they drank sparingly, as they watched the road behind them. “He’ll follow us,” she said. Harry Orr nodded and slapped the team with the lines. Inside the waistband of his overalls was a Colt .45, fully loaded--and Harry Orr was a good shot. “You won’t let him take you, Harry?” she asked. “I’ve been thinkin’ about it, Ann,” he said slowly. “Life’s a queer thing, when yuh put it on the balance. My life or his--and he’s my father. He was all right until he became sheriff, Ann. You know that as well as I do. But it changed him. Duty and power. If he comes, with a gun in his hand, I--well, we’ll see. A man’s only got one life to fool around with, and he might harm you--if he got me first.” “I’m afraid, Harry,” she said. Suddenly her eyes caught a vagrant drift of dust, far ahead. Straining her eyes, she saw more puffs of dust, which could only mean a traveling horse or a vehicle. “Someone coming, Harry!” she exclaimed. “We don’t want anybody to see you. Drop off here and hide, while I drive slowly. When they’re past, I’ll pull up.” Harry Orr slid out of the seat and walked in behind a clump of Joshua palms, where he crouched. The buckboard went ahead slowly. In spite of slow driving the buckboard was possibly a hundred and fifty yards beyond Harry Orr when the lone rider met Ann. Harry was unable to see who the rider was, but Ann had stopped and they were talking. The man was a huge, hulking, hard-faced person, bearded, his hair long, heavily armed. His horse had been shot along the neck, and there was another bullet slash along its left hip, raw and inflamed, and the animal sagged weakly under the weight of the big man. Ann did not remember ever having seen this man before, but he had called her by name. “Yuh don’t know me, eh?” he snarled. “Too many whiskers, eh? Well, I know you, sister. Yo’re the sheriff’s wife. The wife of my dear friend, Flint Orr, damn his dirty hide!” “You--you are Dave Sells! Why, I----” “That’s right, sister--Dave Sells. See this?” He lifted a canvas sack from the pommel of his saddle. “That’s from the bank of Painted Rock. Damn their souls, they shot my bronc, but I got away. Left two of their beloved citizens in the middle of the street, studyin’ astronomy. They’re out behind me some’ers.” “I must be going on, Mr. Sells,” said Ann. “I’m going to Painted----” “Oh, no, yo’re not, sister. Yo’re goin’ with me. By God, this is good! Me and the wife of my dear old friend. Hold on, now, don’t yuh ever think yo’re goin’ any place! Set still, like a nice little girl, or you’ll wish yuh had.” With no lost motions, Dave Sells stripped the saddle and bridle from his half-dead horse and flung them into the back of the buckboard. Then he shoved Ann aside and got into the seat. “What do you mean?” she demanded hotly. “Gawdsakes, yo’re pretty when yuh git mad! What do I mean? Sister, I know a shack in this old Mojave where there’s mebbe water and grub. That damn posse won’t never look for buckboard tracks. Even if they did, the wind’ll cover ’em in a few hours. Ain’t many folks know about that there shack. That’s why I use it. We turn off about a mile from here, and then me and you are lost to everybody. Don’t look at me thataway, sister. Hell, I’m kind of heart. In fact, I feel kinder of heart right now than I have since yore husband and that yaller-hearted Ed Belt sent me up for stealin’ horses.” “Ed Belt?” queried Ann huskily. “Yea-a-ah--Ed Belt. Funny thing, sister, I came back to this country to kill Flint Orr and Ed Belt both. Well, I got Ed Belt, but I never got a sight notched on Flint Orr yet.” “You killed Ed Belt?” “That’s right, sister. Plugged him right at a hitch-rack in Mojave Wells. Some damn fool with Belt took a couple shots at me, and almost handed me a harp. I faded out for a month or so. Well, here’s where we roll off the main road. Our shack’s about eight, nine miles further on.” “They--they arrested Harry Orr for that murder,” Ann told him. “He was the man who shot at you. The--the law didn’t believe him.” “Well, dog my cats!” blurted Sells. “That’s why they never tried to find me, I’ll betcha. Gawd, that was bull luck. Orr? Harry Orr? Say, that’s Flint Orr’s own kid, ain’t he? Yea-a-ah! Well, are they goin’ to hang him?” Ann nodded miserably. “Well, I’ll be a sidewinder!” blurted Sells. “The sheriff’s son--and Flint Orr will have to drop the trap. I shoot a man, and the sheriff hangs his own son for the crime--and I’ve got the sheriff’s wife!” * * * * * Harry Orr, unable to hear what was said, and not understanding what the man had done, saw him jump into the buckboard and drive away at a swift pace. Running heavily in the sand, he reached the spot where the buckboard had stopped, and there he found Dave Sells’ horse, spent and injured. The animal stood there, head down, and let Harry examine its bullet scrapes. His practiced eye saw that the poor brute had been ridden to the limit of its endurance, and its death was only a question of a few hours. Shoving the animal away from the road, he used up one cartridge in giving it a mercy death. It was at least fifteen miles to Painted Rock, but Harry Orr knew that his only salvation was to reach that town and chance an escape by train; so he started to walk, traveling slowly, trying to puzzle out what had happened to Ann. There was no question that she had been captured by this man, but Harry felt that she was being forced to take him to Painted Rock, until he came to where they had turned off on the old road. He sprawled in the meager shade of a Joshua-palm and tried to figure out his next move. As far as he knew that old road led to nowhere, possibly made originally by Mexicans, hauling mesquite-root fuel, which they sold in Mojave Wells. However, he was not going to Painted Rock until he had found out where that buckboard had gone. * * * * * It was late in the afternoon when Flint Orr rode his jaded horse into Jackass Canyon. The blackened rocks fairly sizzled with heat, but it was cooler in the blue shade of the canyon. Red-eyed, partly blinded, the sheriff searched the floor and walls for a sign of his quarry, but to no avail. He tied his horse in the canon and went on foot to the old dugout shack, but it had not been occupied for months. There was some canned food, but no water. He cut open the one can of tomatoes and slaked his thirst. The stuff was nearly hot, but at least it was wet. That one drink would have to suffice until he could get back to Mojave Wells, which he would not attempt until late at night, when the desert would cool. As long as Harry did not come to Jackass Canyon; the sheriff was sure now that Harry had gone to Painted Rock. He cursed himself for acting too quickly, realizing now that the man with Ann must have been Harry, and that both of them had gone to Painted Rock. And here he was, twenty-five miles from Mojave Wells, and at least thirty-five miles from Painted Rock. As the sun dropped below the rim of the cobalt mountains in the west, the sheriff crawled to a ridge where he could look across the desert. The rocks were hot now, but within a couple of hours there would be a cooling breeze. He wondered if his horse could stand a thirty-five mile trip across the sand without water or food. * * * * * Dave Sells and Ann Orr reached the old shack in a thicket of cactus, mesquite and Joshua-palms. It was only one room, with adobe floor, window holes, but no windows. There was a door, swung on raw-hide hinges, but with no lock or fastening. Sells unhitched the team. “We’ve got a couple ridin’ horses now,” he chuckled, as he noted saddle marks on the backs of both horses. “Hell, sister, we ain’t over thirty miles from Mexico. I got friends down there, south of the old Border. We’ll head for there _mañana_--what do yuh say?” Ann shook her head. She was in a desperate situation. Sells had little brains and absolutely no morals. “No?” he queried with a wolfish smile. “Well, sister, you’ll either go or you won’t go no place. C’mon.” “You’d kill me?” she asked wearily. “Just like I would a bug. You bein’ young and pretty don’t make a damn bit of difference to me, sister. Git into the shack!” It was hot in there, but cooler than it was outside. Ann sank down on an old stool, while Sells sprawled on a bed-roll, between her and the open doorway. “We’ll have better than this in Mexico,” he told her. “I know a place down there on the Yaqui River where nobody ever comes, except Yaqui. They’re my friends. Mebbe, in a year or two, I’ll come back here and make another good haul.” Sells rolled a cigarette. Ann’s eyes opened wider, as he took a pinch of stuff from his vest pocket and sifted it on top of the tobacco before sealing his cigarette. He glanced up at her and grinned. “Marajuana,” he admitted. “Good for yore nerves, when yo’re kinda fagged. Better’n whiskey.” Ann knew what that stuff would do to the smoker. “I don’t go crazy on it,” he told her. “I jist take enough to make me forgit the hell I’ve been through. Yuh better let me roll yuh one, sister. You’ll have plenty to forgit.” Sells laughed heartily. “I only hope that the sheriff knows what happened to yuh.” * * * * * Harry Orr, ready to drop from exhaustion, stumbled onto the shack, and pitched headlong behind a patch of cactus, when a bullet tugged at his sleeve. Dave Sells had seen him from the doorway, just as the sun was nearly down. Marajuana had jangled Sells’ nerves to the extent that he had jerked the trigger, instead of squeezing it. Sells thought for a moment that he had scored a hit, and that mistake almost finished him, because Harry Orr’s first shot struck the buckle of Sells’ ornate belt a glancing shot, and nearly knocked the big outlaw back into the shack. Then Harry Orr crawled in behind some heavier cover and took stock of the situation. He had four shells left in his gun. His tongue was swollen and his lips cracked, but he knew he was a long ways from any available water. In the shack, Dave Sells, swearing bitterly, proceeded to tie Ann’s feet and wrists. He had no idea who the attacker might be, and in his present state of mind, he did not care much. He peered from a corner of one of the window holes, turned back and picked up the canteen, shook it, a scowl on his face. There was a wet spot on the adobe floor. Then he whirled on Ann. “Damn you, yuh opened that canteen on me!” he rasped. “Not a damn drop left! No water!” “The top came off when you threw it down there,” she said. “When you drank that last time, you didn’t screw it tight.” “Sister, I think yo’re a liar. All right, we’ll go to Mexico anyway. You’ll go until yuh drop, and I’ll leave yuh there. Thirst never beat me. I’ll show yuh. By God, we’ll head for Mexico tonight--now!” “What about the man outside?” she asked. “Huh? Oh, yeah--the man outside. Well, he can’t stop us. No one man ever stopped Dave Sells, sister. I’ll go out there and saddle the horses.” Sells stepped into the doorway and a bullet clipped a lock of hair from just above his left ear. He staggered back and slammed the door. Then he ran to a window hole and emptied his sixshooter, scattering his shots in every direction, hoping to score a hit. Then he leaned against the wall and reloaded his gun. Slowly he counted the cartridges in his belt, a scowl on his face. Nine, besides the six in his gun. He had the rifle, with plenty of ammunition, but little good that was. He had dropped the rifle in the sand, with the action open that morning, and it was clogged with sand. It would require a screwdriver and some cleaning fluid to make it function again. Fifteen shots left--and he had no idea where the posse was that followed him from Painted Rock. It was growing dark now. Ann could barely see Sells’ face, as he sat there. Then she heard a voice calling softly; “Ann! Ann!” Sells sprang to his feet, and with a curse on his lips, he ran to the window and began firing out into the gloom, until his gun was empty. “Who was that?” he demanded, drawing back from the window. “Who was that, damn yuh?” “I didn’t hear anybody,” Ann protested. “The hell, yuh didn’t! What’s yore first name?” “Mary,” lied Ann. “Oh!” Sells sat down on the bed-roll and began loading his gun again. “Got to be careful,” he muttered aloud. “Nine shells left.” He flung the door open and looked out. Fifty yards away, in a tangle of mesquite, cat-claw and sage, all as dry as tinder, flames were licking high. There were acres of it. As he looked a heavy clump fairly exploded, throwing a ball of fire high into the air. The shack was in no danger, because the breeze was taking the fire away. Dave Sells cursed and slammed the door shut. “Somebody fired the damn desert!” he roared at Ann. “Yuh can see the flames for fifty miles, damn his soul! We’ve got to git out of here! I’m goin’ to git them horses--and I’ll kill any man who tries to stop me!” Sells flung the door open, gripped his gun and made a dash for the corner. Ann heard two bullets strike the side of the shack, and one of them only missed her by a few inches. Then she heard a fusillade of shots, as Dave Sells blasted back at Harry Orr. A few moments later Sells crashed through the doorway again, cursing bitterly. “Got me through the left arm, damn him!” he gritted. “I think I got him, too.” “The horses?” Ann queried weakly. “They’re gone,” Sells snarled. “We’re walkin’ to Mexico, sister.” Sells tore a strip from his shirt and bandaged his injured forearm, standing against the wall at a window hole. “Only three shells left,” gritted Sells, as he turned away from the window. “Mebbe one for that jasper outside, one for you--and mebbe one for me. Dave Sells never quits, sister, so don’t worry.” * * * * * Far out on those rocks on the rim of Jackass Canyon, Flint Orr saw the flicker of that brush fire. It was little more than a twinkle of light, like a campfire a mile away, but it interested Flint Orr. Was it the campfire of the man he was seeking? Just a little west of the North Star. Swiftly he crawled off the rocks and headed back for his horse. There was a breeze now, but that did not slake his thirst. The jaded horse nickered softly, but Flint Orr climbed stiffly into his saddle and headed back down the canyon. The bad men of the Old Mojave and the desert heat had never whipped Flint Orr, not even with the help of his faithless wife. On the flat of the desert he could no longer see that flicker of light, but he knew it was somewhere out there, and he was going to find it. In a dim sort of way he realized that he was east of Mojave Wells, but well out on that angle between Jackass Canyon and Painted Rock. He remembered the flicker of light he had seen, but that was years ago. He wasn’t going any place now. His face and arms were cut from mesquite thorns and he could taste the salt of the blood on his lips. Suddenly his horse faltered, stumbled and went down, throwing Orr heavily in the sand. The fall aroused him to a memory of what he was doing out there, and where he was going. The horse was finished, but Flint Orr was going on. After a few rods he threw away his heavy rifle. The double belt of cartridges galled him. With fumbling fingers he unbuckled a belt and let it fall in the sand. That relieved him some. Then he went stumbling on in the moonlight, his burning eyes keeping a course by the North Star, which seemed to have a bad habit of moving around from place to place. Flint Orr laughed soundlessly. “Playin’ a game, eh?” he whispered hoarsely. “Tryin’ to fool Flint Orr, are yuh? Go ahead. I’ll play with yuh--fer keeps!” * * * * * Harry Orr sprawled behind a clump of cactus a few yards from the closed door of the shack, as daylight came swiftly across the desert. Behind him and to the right was a blackened expanse of burned land, from which wisps of smoke still curled. Harry had a welt across one shoulder, where one of Sells’ bullets had scored him. He had just one cartridge left in his gun, having used one to drive Sells back into the shack, when he attempted to go away and take Ann with him. Harry had no idea how may cartridges Sells had left, but supposed that the bandit had a fair supply. A chilly wind swept across the desert, but the flare of sun behind the mountains beyond Jackass Canyon indicated that it would be plenty hot before long. He had heard voices inside the shack, so he decided that Ann was still all right. The sun topped the mountains, striking squarely against the front of the shack. Harry saw a bearded face at a window hole, but he was not going to waste his last cartridge on an indefinite target. He would wait for the man to come outside. Harry had lost his hat, and the sun was beating down on the back of his unprotected head. His thirst had abated somewhat during the cold night, but right now he would almost have traded his last cartridge for a sip of water. Harry did not know that Dave Sells and Ann were also suffering from thirst. He knew that the canteen on the buckboard was nearly full, when he and Ann took their last drink, before meeting Dave Sells. There was no movement inside the shack, and that sun on the back of his head was becoming unbearable. He had just started to try and snake back to a more comfortable spot, when he heard a noise. Lifting his head a trifle and looking toward the still smoking burn, he saw a man a hundred feet away, head down, heading for the shack. A second glance told him that this man was Flint Orr, bare-headed, his face grimy with blood and dirt. There was little left of his shirt. Harry tried to cry out to him, but his throat merely emitted a croak. Dave Sells had seen him, too, and stepped outside. Sells called to the sheriff, who stopped short. Instinct caused him to reach for his gun. Sells fired, but missed. The sheriff stumbled to his knees, but lifted his gun and began firing. Evidently his bullets were going so far wide that Dave Sells laughed mockingly. Then he fired deliberately at the sheriff, but missed again. Then Harry Orr, staking his last cartridge, smashed a bullet into Dave Sells. It spun Sells around, but did not knock him down. The sheriff was staggering, trying to reload his gun. The three men were not over twenty feet apart now. Everything was quiet, when the sheriff lifted his head and croaked; “My God, I throwed away the wrong belt!” Dave Sells laughed, as the sheriff came staggering, an empty gun in his hand. The sheriff’s eyes were swollen to mere slits, as he tried to focus them on Dave Sells. Harry came up to them, empty-handed. Sells paid no attention to him, nor did the sheriff. Sells was badly hurt and was only keeping up on sheer nerve. “What’s goin’ on?” croaked the sheriff. “Damn it, I can’t see.” “Keep back, both of yuh,” warned Sells. “I’ve still got one shell left.” “Who are you?” asked the sheriff in a husky whisper. “Don’t know me, eh? Well, I’m Dave Sells, damn yore hide!” “Dave Sells? No! Sells is still in the pen.” “Where you and that lyin’ Belt sent him, eh? Well, he’s not. He’s right here, and he’s got you where he wants yuh. I told yuh I’d come back and get yuh, Orr. I got Belt, and I’ve been waitin’ for you.” “You--you killed Belt?” whispered the sheriff. “You?” “I killed him at that hitch-rack in Mojave Wells. Oh, I know yore son was arrested and convicted. Yore wife told me all about that part of it. You was goin’ to have to hang him. Too damn bad I didn’t wait until he was hung.” “My wife?” croaked the sheriff. “Where’s my wife?” “Settin’ right in that shack, Orr. When I settle with you two, me and her are headin’ for Mexico. Git in that shack, both of yuh.” “You’ll never get to Mexico, Sells,” said Harry. “That last bullet stopped that move. Yo’re dyin’ on yore feet.” “Dyin’, eh? Not Dave Sells. Git in there. Keep yore distance, you poor fool.” They entered the shack ahead of him. Ann, frightened and sick from her experience, her wrists and ankles roped, was seated against the wall. Dave Sells, still cautious, stood beside her, the heavy Colt in his right hand. He was bleeding heavily. “Yo’re all through,” said Harry. “You can’t get away. Throw down that gun, and we’ll take yuh to Mojave Wells. We can get yuh to a doctor.” “Doctor?” croaked Sells. “What for? To save me for the rope? This suits me better.” A spasm of pain wracked his body and he clawed against the wall with his left hand. “Think I’m goin’ to die?” he snarled. “Well, I won’t die until I do what I came here to do. I killed Belt. I paid him back. Now, I’m goin’ to pay you, Orr. I wish I’d let yuh hang yore own son. You’d do that, Orr. They say that blood is thicker’n water--but not with you. One shell left, Orr. One--wait! Damn it, we’ll gamble on this’n. Gimme a piece of money. Hurry, damn yuh!” With fumbling fingers the sheriff took a silver dollar from his sagging vest pocket. Sells laughed insanely. “One to go,” he choked. “Call it, Orr. It’s you or the kid. Heads for one, tails for the other. Call it.” “Heads, I take it,” whispered Flint Orr. “All right. Heads, you die, tails, the kid dies. Throw it! No--wait! I’ll call it. Throw it--now!” Flint Orr, with a weak motion of his hand, tossed the dollar and it fell to the dirt floor, square in the shaft of sunlight from the partly-open door. Even Ann tried to lean forward to see that shining bit of metal. It was Flint Orr who said; “It’s heads, Sells. Shoot!” “You lie!” gritted Sells. “It’s tails! The kid gets it!” Sells lifted his gun swiftly, but as his finger tightened on the trigger, Flint Orr flung himself in front of his son, just as the flimsy shack shuddered from the concussion of the forty-five. Harry Orr flung himself into Sells, but the dying outlaw made no resistance. There was a pounding of hoofs outside the shack and a moment later men were coming in. It was the posse, which had been trailing Dave Sells for twenty-four hours. They quickly cut Ann loose, and there were plenty of canteens on the saddles. Sells lived long enough to confess that he had murdered Ed Belt. They found the team where Harry Orr had hidden it, and hitched it to the buckboard. Harry went back into the shack. The high heel of a cowboy had shoved that silver dollar deep into the dirt, but Harry dug it out. For a long time he looked at it, before going back to the buckboard, where Ann waited for him. Silently he handed her the silver dollar. Ann looked at it, a puzzled expression in her eyes. Then she said: “It was his lucky pocket-piece, Harry. He took it away from a tinhorn gambler. It has tails on both sides.” After all, blood had proved stronger than water. THE END [Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the October, 1940 issue of _Adventure_ magazine.] *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GAMBLER'S DOLLAR *** Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away--you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark license, especially commercial redistribution. START: FULL LICENSE THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work (or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at www.gutenberg.org/license. Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works 1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™ electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property (trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. 1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. 1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the United States and you are located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™ works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when you share it without charge with others. 1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any country other than the United States. 1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: 1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, copied or distributed: This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook. 1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™ trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. 1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. 1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™ License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™. 1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project Gutenberg™ License. 1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website (www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. 1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. 1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works provided that: • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.” • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ works. • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of receipt of the work. • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works. 1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. 1.F. 1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment. 1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGE. 1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further opportunities to fix the problem. 1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you “AS-IS”, WITH NO OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. 1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. 1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any Defect you cause. Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™ Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from people in all walks of life. Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™'s goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit 501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. The Foundation's business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the Foundation's website and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations ($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt status with the IRS. The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who approach us with offers to donate. International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. Most people start at our website which has the main PG search facility: www.gutenberg.org This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™, including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.