Still his little fortune dwindled, till the sweat came out on his forehead and the blood that had flushed his face ran back and left him pale with dread. And at last there remained only one gold piece. He hesitated, holding it poised for the wager, while the owner of the game rattled the dice loudly and looked up at the coin with hungry eyes.
Once more Pierre closed his eyes and laid his wager, while his empty left hand slipped again inside his shirt and touched the metal of the cross, and once more when he opened his eyes the hand of the gambler was going out to lay a second coin over his.
"It is the cross!" thought Pierre, and thrilled mightily. "It is the cross which brings me luck."
The dice rattled out. He won. Again, and still he won. The gambler wiped his forehead and looked up anxiously. For these were wagers in gold, and the doubling stakes were running high. About Pierre a crowd had grown—a dozen cattle-men who watched the growing heap of gold with silent fascination. Then they began to make wagers of their own, and there were faint whispers of wrath and astonishment as the dice clicked out and each time the winnings of Pierre doubled.
Suddenly the dealer stopped and held up his left hand as a warning. With his right, very slowly, inch by inch lest any one should suspect him of a gun play, he drew out a heavy forty-five and laid it on the table with the belt of cartridges.
"Three years she's been on my hip through thick and thin, stranger. Three years she's shot close
