The Shooting of Dan McGrew, A Novel. Based on the Famous Poem of Robert Service. Marvin Dana

masses of hair, tense with interest, as her eyes searched the newcomer in vast curiosity. A great shyness was upon her as she approached.

      "This is my daughter, Nell," Jim said, with manifest pride in the winsome creature.

      "And Lou's!" the other muttered, under his breath. But Jim caught the words, and was moved to a fleeting pity for the man who had failed in love.

      Nell murmured a stilted phrase in expression of her pleasure at meeting Mr. McGrew. But as the stranger bent and kissed her, she felt a sudden instinct of distaste under the caress that both frightened and puzzled her. For, hitherto in her childish experience, embraces and kisses had been matters either of pleasure, as in the case of her father and mother and others dear to her, or of utter indifference, as in the case of those for whom she cared nothing. Now, for the first time, a kiss was disagreeable. She felt herself somehow frightened by this fine gentleman, who might be a prince. She could not understand it.

      The child could not have understood even had she been able to look into the heart of Dangerous Dan McGrew, there to see the black malice that fouled it.

      For such was the fact. There was evil in the mind and in the soul of Dan McGrew. Through all the years since he had lost Lou Ainsworthy, he had longed for her. The circumstance that she was married to another man put no curb on his fierce desire for her. Unlawful passion throbbed in his blood. It was this that had driven him to the long journey. A man wholly without scruple, without care for any other than himself, save only the woman to possess whom he so craved, Dan McGrew was resolved to woo that woman anew, to win her for himself by any means, no matter how false or vile.

      Thus, it came to pass that, in the days of his dwelling under the roof of the man whom he was determined to wrong, the visitor played the hypocrite with his host, aping a manner of bluff, candid good-fellowship. With the wife, too, he played the hypocrite. He dared not let her so much as suspect the hot fires that burned in him as he looked yearningly on her loveliness. He realized, at the outset, that her devotion to the man of her choice remained unaltered. He knew that the open confession of his illicit love would move her to scorn and loathing. Only by guile, and that of the craftiest, could he hope for triumph over loyalty and love. With the passing days, the task loomed before him as one almost impossible of achievement. From all that he knew of Jim's past life and all that he could learn concerning the husband's reputation in the community, there showed nowhere any least opportunity for attack. And attack must be made, for only by destroying the wife's faith could he have any opportunity to gain her favor. It occurred to him that, in a conspiracy, he would have need of accomplices. To get some information concerning such as might serve his end, he often rode alone to the town, while Jim was occupied with ranch affairs. There, he entered easily into the vulgar dissipations of the place, making himself hail-fellow-well-met with the riff-raff of the saloons and dance-houses, both men and women. The occupation was, in truth, congenial enough to him; for there was a coarseness in his nature that found satisfaction in loose living. Before he had been a week at the ranch, he had become known to all the blear-eyed habitués of Murphy's saloon—to some of the women frequenters there as well, and to certain men who were not blear-eyed; for they drank little, but played poker much. With these latter, especially, Dangerous Dan fraternized, since, like many a wiser man and better, he greatly admired poker—and his own playing of it.

      Dan won the first day, and the second, and the third—as those playing with him meant that he should. But the stakes were small. Dan himself fretted because they were so small. It was his own suggestion, his own insistence, that the stakes should be raised. Immediately, then, Dan's luck slumped. It worried him only a little at first—more, as the ill fortune continued.

      On the fourth day, Jess, one of the painted women of the place, leaned over him so closely that the heavy musk of her perfume deadened his senses. She whispered her admiration of his play. Dan forgot that she was the wife without the law of Fingie Whalen, who sat across the table from him, ferret-faced and with slender, agile fingers that touched the deck of cards always with the soft delicacy of a caress. Jess's praise fattened Dan's pride in his own skill. He insisted loudly on larger stakes, which were accepted grudgingly by his fellow players. There were four others at the table with him. Despite his experience in cities further East, he had no least suspicion that the odds of the game were four to one. He lost a most attractive pot on a full house of kings with treys. The event angered him. A little later, a pot that had been raised around the board until it was of admirable proportions, was lost by him to one who held a humble, but efficient, flush.

      Dan was not an honest man. His losses irritated him. He believed, by reason of a certain dexterity in legerdemain, that he could thus cajole fortune. He misjudged his company. When he possessed himself of four aces, and held them concealed in his hand, he failed to note the eyes of Fingie Whalen, which had followed his every movement.

      But this same Fingie, being a master of his craft, said nothing until after the bets had run high and it had come to the show-down. Dan had forced the betting to a point where the chips and bills and gold on the table totaled a most respectable sum. He swept the pot toward him, after a contemptuous glance at the four-of-a-kind which Fingie had offered against him. His own four aces were indisputably winners.

      But Fingie Whalen thrust out an imperative hand in restraint.

      "Nothin' doin'!"

      In the same instant, his fingers closed in a viselike grip on Dan's left hand. Dan was the stronger man. But, in the moment of surprise, his muscles yielded. His hand was pulled forward—it lay open on the table.

      Within his palm four cards were lying. With his free hand Fingie flipped the four cards upon the table. They were inconsiderable—a deuce, a nine, a pair of sevens.

      His trickery thus baldly revealed, Dan would have acted, but he was too late. As he pulled the automatic from his pocket, the man next him thrust an elbow forward and the shot went wild. In the next instant, the pistol had been knocked from his grasp, and four men bore down upon him. Dan was a strong man, and, whatever his faults, absolutely fearless. He struck out vigorously, but the slender, silk-ankled foot of Jess caught him so that he stumbled and missed his blow. The fists of the four beat him to the floor.

      It was then that Jim entered the room. He had business in town, and, on learning at the ranch-house that his guest had preceded him, he had felt it incumbent upon him to seek out Dan. He had acted from a rather futile sense of duty toward the man who, as Tom had put it, required the strong hands of a friend to keep him in the straight path.

      At the hotel, he made inquiry of the clerk:

      "Have you seen anything of Mr. McGrew?"

      The clerk permitted himself an indulgent grin at the question. He admired Jim Maxwell, as did all the better element in the community, and he found himself wondering over the disreputable associations of the stranger who was the ranch-owner's guest. His answer was prompt:

      "You're pretty sure to find him in the back room over to Murphy's. Usually, when he hits this burg, he sets in a game with the gang over there."

      Jim's face lined grimly. He felt a great distaste for his mission. He was no precisian. He was not above taking a glass on occasion at Murphy's bar. But he had no liking for the vicious. The coarse debauchery of such a place was repulsive to him, as it must be to any decent man. Nevertheless, he went out of the hotel, and strode rapidly toward the corner on which stood the rough frame building of the saloon. As he drew near, the report of a shot came sharply.

      "What hell's mess is on now?" he muttered savagely, and broke into a run. In the next instant, he had leaped through the door to the back room. He could not see clearly for a few seconds in the gloomy place, after the glaring sunlight of outdoors. But the evidences of conflict were plain enough from the sounds of stamping boots upon the boarded floor, the soft thudding of fists against flesh, the snarling curses, gaspings and guttural gruntings of the combatants, the shrill screams and whimperings of women. Then his eyes adjusted themselves to the dim light, and he made out the form of Dan McGrew, girt about with the thrashing arms and legs of his assailants. Without any hesitation, Jim plunged into the fray. His fists shot home in sledge-hammer blows, against which the four, taken completely by surprise, were defenseless.