hand upon the rail. The steamer was sweeping around a great bend, and
a leadsman forward was calling the depth of water, his monotonous voice
chanting out strange river terms of guidance. I had reached the foot
of the ladder, my fingers blindly seeking the iron rungs in the gloom,
when a figure, vague, indistinct, suddenly emerged from some denser
shadow and confronted me. Indeed the earliest realization I had of any
other presence was a sharp pressure against my breast, and a low voice
breathing a menacing threat in my ear.

"I advise you not to move, you young fool. This is a cocked pistol
tickling your ribs. Where were you going?"

The black night veiled his face, but language and voice, an spite of
its low grumble, told me the speaker was Kirby. The very coldness of
his tone served to send a chill through me.

"To have a word with Thockmorton," I answered, angered at my own fear,
and rendered reckless by that burst of passion. "What do you mean by
your threat? Haven't you robbed enough men already with cards without
resorting to a gun?"

"This is no robbery," and I knew by the sharpness of his reply my words
had stung, "and it might be well for you to keep a civil tongue in your
head. I overheard what you said to those men in the cabin. So you are
going to take care of me, are you?" There was a touch of steel in the
low voice. "Now listen, you brainless meddler. Joe Kirby knows
exactly what he is doing when he plays any game. I had nothing to do
with Beaucaire's death, but those stakes are mine. I hold them, and I
will kill any man who dares to interfere with me."