The others were preparing to go on three-handed, when the stranger intervened.
"If it's an open game, gents, and you've no objections, I'll take a hand," he said.
As no one demurred, he slid into the vacant chair, bought a hundred dollars worth of chips and the game proceeded.
For a time Fortune seemed to divide her favors impartially, and the chips before each player remained about the same. Then the luck changed and the stranger began to win heavily. He raked in one pot after another, losing only occasionally, and then, generally, when the stakes were small. The atmosphere about the table became tense and feverish, and gradually most of the others in the room gathered about the players and watched the progress of the game.
It was the newcomer's deal. The pack had been cut, and he was dealing out the cards, when suddenly one of the players leaped to his feet.
"Foul play," he shouted. "You dealt that last card from the bottom of the pack." And at the same instant he threw over the table and reached for his gun.
But quick as he was, the stranger was quicker. Like a flash his revolver spoke, and his opponent fell to the floor. But the others now had started shooting and there was a fusillade. The spectators dropped behind anything that promised shelter and the bartender went out of sight under the counter. Only after the revolvers had been emptied did the firing cease.
When the smoke lifted, three were lying on the littered floor, one dead and two desperately wounded. The stranger was not to be seen, but the pounding of hoofs outside told of his escape. He had gone, but not till Bert had seen one thing that registered itself indelibly on his mind.
The stranger had drawn and shot with his left hand.