It was his last hope, the last attempt to divert the attack on his will and bolster his waning forces. His nerves jumped and cringed and quivered, but outwardly he was calm, his face drawn to mask the torture.
Jed, aroused, rubbed his sleepy eyes and lighted his pipe. He put on his steel-rimmed spectacles and took down the greasy, cornerless deck of cards to shuffle them slowly, with method, as though it were a rite.
VB sat motionless and a little limp in his chair, too far from the table for comfortable playing. Jed peered at him over his glasses.
"You might get th' coffee beans," he said, with a great yawn.
When the other did not answer he said again: "You might get th' coffee beans, VB. Sleepy?"
The young chap arose then to follow the suggestion, but ignored the query. He went to the cupboard and brought back a handful of the beans, the cowman's poker chips. His hand was waiting for him.
"Good deal?" Jed asked.
VB shook his head. "Not better than a couple."
"O-ho, I'm better off!" and Jed slammed down the ace of hearts.
VB leaned low and played the four-spot, almost viciously, gritting his teeth to force his mind into the game. It rebelled, told him the uselessness of such things, the hopelessness before him, tried to play on the aridness of his throat. But for the moment his will was strong and he followed the game as though gambling for a life.