Gamblers Don't Win by W. T. Ballard Page A

brother. You didn’t know that I knew, that I suspected, did you? I couldn’t prove it. I hadn’t a chance to do anything, but the man that loosened that steering gear the night Bert was killed, told me when he was dying. I hadn’t anything but his word. I had no proof that you paid him for the job. I couldn’t even prove that you wanted Bert out of the way because he wouldn’t play your game, because he was protecting the riders from you. All I could do was to take over the stable, to wait, to throw in with you when I got the chance and play your game, waiting for a time when you had all your money bet, when you had tipped your friends.
    â€œI was set to do it once last summer in the East; then something happened and I had to wait. The boys helped me, the riders that had been loyal to Bert, the ones that were riding to your orders. I didn’t expect you to kill Jarney. I might have gone to the police then, but I couldn’t prove anything, and you had too much money, too much power. You haven’t got it now. I’ve stripped it from you, and your own friends, your own kind, will be yapping—no, don’t move.” Her voice had sharpened, and Lennox stepped quickly forward to the open door.
    Custis stood with his back to the door, facing the girl. He was leaning forward, his shoulders hunched. Something in her hand glittered. “Keep back!” It was a small gun.
    Even as Lennox reached the door, he saw Custis spring forward, saw the little gun speak once, the bullet just missing his ear as Custis, with the litheness of a cat, sprang in, caught her wrist, twisted it until the gun dropped to the floor of the “tack” room, his other hand closing over her mouth.
    â€œSo you framed me.” Something in the man seemed to have snapped his power of control. Lennox sensed it as he leaped in, sensed that in another instant the girl might be dead. His arm locked about Custis’s neck, pulling his head back sharply, breaking his grip on the girl.
    The gambler twisted with the swift movement of a snake, drove his elbow into the stomach, just above Lennox’s belt, broke Bill’s grip and backed away, his jade-like eyes flaming, his right hand, concealed for a moment in his coat. Then it appeared, holding a short, squat gun.
    Lennox leaped at him, felt something burn his side, heard an explosion almost in his ear; then his arms were locked about Custis and they went over onto the floor together. The gambler was trying to bring up his gun, Lennox, his fingers locked about the man’s wrist, attempting to keep it down. His breath was short and Custis’s shoulder against his nose made it harder. His lungs seemed to be bursting, yet he knew that if he once released his grip it meant death, death not only for himself, but also for the girl.
    Tiny black spots danced before his eyes. Custis was strong, surprisingly so. His arm was like a coiled band of steel, coming up, slowly, ever so slowly, despite all Lennox could do. Inch by inch the gun moved. Lennox sank his teeth in his lower lip as he hung on, then he suddenly released his grip with his left hand on the man’s back and rolled over, feeling Custis’s arm, the gun beneath him. He lashed out with his left fist, heard the man’s muffled curse, rolled clear, and kicked hard at the wrist. His shoe hit the gun instead, sending it spinning half across the room to strike the girl’s side, but Lennox never saw it.
    He was on his knees, then his feet, swaying there for an instant. Then he jumped at the gambler, storming through the blows raining upon him, his shoulder striking the man’s chest, his fingers searching for the white throat as they went over again. Confusedly he knew there were other people in the room, but he had no idea who they were, did not in the least care. He was tired, too tired to be certain of things.
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    T HEN big hands had his shoulders and were hauling him to his feet and a