He sat, of course, facing the door, and Kettle-Belly Johnson occupied the opposite chair. On the two other players, one of whom was flanking John Ringo on each side, there is no need to waste words; they belonged to the same breed as the poetically rechristened Johnson, the breed that got its name from shaking dice against Mexicans out of tin horns.
It was no more than natural that the desperado should ask himself whether he was right in blaming fortune for the cards which he drew. There came a new deal and time to draw again.
“Two,” John Ringo muttered.
Kettle-Belly Johnson held up a single finger; and when he had got his card, performed one of those prestidigital feats by which he made his living. And when this was accomplished––with the aid of a device known as a “hold-out”––his moist, plump fingers clutched a full house––jacks on kings. The betting went briskly to the bitter end.
John Ringo scowled down on the hand which beat his; pushed back his chair, fumbled briefly at his vest, and laid his gold watch on the table.
“Lend me a hundred,” he growled. “She’s worth a hundred and fifty.” But Kettle-Belly Johnson shook his head.
“Easy come,” said he, “easy go. Get out and rustle some more cows or hold up the stage again. We ain’t a-runnin’ no pawn-shop.”
John Ringo left the room without more words, and the three tin horns fell to cutting for low spade to while away the time. They had been at it just as long as it would take a man to go down to the corral, saddle his pony, and bring the animal up in front of the building, when the outlaw reëntered. His single-action Colt’s forty-five revolver was in his right hand; its muzzle regarded the trio at the table like a dark, baleful eye.
The bearer of the weapon uttered a single word, a word which is not found in any dictionary although it has come down from the time when the first Englishman took to the highway to seek his daily meat.