“I can play as swift as most—and then, some.” He shoved a pile of chips into the centre of the table with both hands. “Come again!”
Tinhorn did come again; and again, and again, and again. He bet with the confidence of knowledge—with a confidence that put the fear in Smith’s heart. But he could not, and he would not, quit now. His jaw was set as he pulled off banknote after banknote in the tense silence which had fallen.
When the last of them fluttered to the table he asked:
“What you got?”
For answer, Tinhorn turned over a third queen. Encircling the pile of money and chips with his arm, he swept them toward him.
Smith rose and kicked the chair out of his way.
“That’s the end of my rope,” he said, with a hard laugh. “I’m done.”
“Have a drink,” urged Tinhorn.
“Not to-day,” he answered shortly.
The crowd parted to let him pass. Untying his horse, he sprang into the saddle, and not much more than an hour from the time he had arrived he rode down the main street, past the bank where he was to leave his roll, flat broke.