The game was straight draw poker, and the prize a private horse. Ten dollars apiece was the price of a chance, and it was freeze-out at four-bits a chip. That served to draw the whole crowd, and as the contest narrowed down to Buck Buchanan and Happy Jack, the table was lined three deep.
"How many?" asked Buck, picking up the deck.
"Gimme one!" said Jack, and when he got it he looked grave and turned down his hand, the way all good poker players do when they have tried to fill a flush and failed.
"I bet ye ten!" challenged Jack.
"Go you—and ten more!" came back Buck.
"Raise ye twenty!"
"What ye got?" demanded Buck, shoving his beans to the center, and then, with a sudden roar, he leaped up and seized the stakes. "Keep yore hands off that discyard!" he bellowed, hammering furiously on the table. "You lie, you——"
Whack! came Happy Jack's hand across his face, and Buchanan grabbed for his gun. Then, as the crowd scattered wildly, he thrust out his pistol and shot a great flash of powder between Happy Jack's arm and his ribs.
"Uh!" grunted Jack, and went over backward, chair and all.
Then Hardy Atkins blew out the lamp, and the riot went on in the dark. Bowles was only one of ten frantic punchers who struggled to get out the door; Brigham Clark was one of as many more who burrowed beneath the beds; and when Hardy Atkins lit the lamp and threw the dim light on Happy Jack's wan face he was just in time to save his audience. True, the older punchers had been in fake fights before; but they had been in real ones, too—where the bullets flew wide of the mark—and this had seemed mighty real. In fact, if one were to criticize such a finished production, it was a little too real for the purpose, for the conduct of Bowles was in no wise different from the rest. There had been a little too much secrecy and not quite enough team-work about the play, but Poker-face Bill was still at his post and the victim was caught in the crowd.