A box had been smashed to splinters, probably by having someone put a foot through it.
Bull examined the deal table.

Across the center of it there was a dark stain, and on the farther side, two hands were printed distinctly into the wood, in the same dull color.

The whole scene rose revoltingly distinct in the mind of Bull.
Here sat Dan Armstrong playing his cheerful game, laughing and jesting, because forsooth he was the winner.

And there, on the opposite side of the table, sat Pete Reeve, the guest in the house of his host, growing darker and darker as the money was transferred from his pocket to the pocket of the jovial Armstrong.

Then, a sudden taking of offense at some harmless jest, the cold flash of steel as Reeve leaned and jumped to his feet, and then the explosion of the revolver, with Armstrong settling slowly, limply forward on the table.
There he lay with a stream pouring across the table from the death wound, his helpless arms outstretched on the wood.
Then Reeve, panic-stricken, perhaps with a sudden stirring of remorse, started for the door, struck the box on his way, smashing it to bits, and as soon as he got outside, leaped for his horse.