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Page 82
But the gambler's eyes blazed with ferocity.
"Don't waste any soft soap on me, Reade," he said slowly, and with many
pauses. "The Doc is a fool. I'm going to get well, and there will be
just one happiness ahead of me. That will be to find you, wherever you
may be, and to what I tried to do to you to-night."
"Can't you forget that sort of thing, Duff?" asked Tom gravely. "Not
that I'm afraid of you; you've seen enough of me to-night to know that
I'm not afraid of you. But I'm afraid for you. You're close to
eternity, Duff, and I'd like to see you go to your death with a calm,
hopeful, decent mind. I'd like to see you go with a hope of a better
life hereafter."
"Don't give me any of your canting talk, Reade," snarled the gambler
weakly.
"I'm not going to do so," sighed Tom, rising. "I'm afraid it would be
useless. Try to remember, Duff, that I allow myself to have no hard
feelings against you. If you possibly can recover I shall be glad to
hear that you've done so."
Then Tom stepped over to Dr. Furniss' side, whispering to him:
"Doc, you'll see to it that some clergyman is called, won't you? Any
clergyman that is the most likely to reach the heart and the soul of a
hardened fellow like Jim Duff."
Dr. Furniss nodded. Men appeared with an old door that was to be used
as a stretcher. On this the gambler was placed, and the physician gave
him such immediate attention as could be supplied on the sidewalk, for
Jim Duff had been shot through the right lung. Then the bearers lifted
the door, bearing the gambler back to the now gloomy Mansion House, the
doctor following. Ashby, who had been strangely quiet after the
shooting, was taken to the local police station and placed in a cell.
Just after the two had been taken care of, and while the crowd still
lingered, a young man pushed his way through to the center of the crowd.
"I heard that Jim Duff had returned to town," began the young man. The
speaker was Clarence Farnsworth, the foolish young easterner who had
been sadly fleeced by the gambler.
"Yes; Duff came back," said Mr. Hawkins, quietly.
"Where is he?" asked Farnsworth. "I must leave in the morning, and I
owe Duff seven hundred dollars. I want to pay it to him."
"Money you lost gambling with Duff?" questioned Hawkins.
"It's a debt of honor that I owe Mr. Duff," Farnsworth replied, flushing
considerably.
"Son, take one little hint from me," continued Hawkins. "No money ever
lost to a gambler in card playing is a debt of honor. It's merely the
liability of a chump and a fool. No gambler ever uses any real honor.
Men of honor work for the money that they need or want. Duff had a
smooth way of talking, an agreeable manner with his profitable victims,
but he never had a shred of honor. It isn't possible to be a gambler
and a man of honor. If you've seven hundred dollars that you lost to
Duff at cards, put it in your pocket and get out of Paloma as soon as
you can. Duff won't need the money, anyway. He's down at the Mansion
House, dying of a bullet wound that he got through his last piece of
trickery. I hate to speak harshly of a dying man, but I'd like to see
you get a grain or two of common sense into your head, boy."
Again Farnsworth flushed, but three or four seasoned Arizona men who
stood near by added their advice, in line with that of Mr. Hawkins.
Clarence soon edged away.
An hour after daylight Jim Duff died. Dr. Furniss and the others who
were with the gambler at the last were unable to state that Duff had
offered any expression of regret for his evil life, or for his last
wicked acts.
Jim Duff died as he had lived.
George Ashby was sent to an asylum and his property sold for his
benefit. After a year he was discharged as cured. He has vanished,
swallowed up in some other community, and nothing more has been heard of
him.
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