"Don't let that worry yuh," the big-chested gambler snarled. "Sit in, or shut up and get out!"
If Kid Wolf was angered, he made no sign of it. His lips still smiled, as he drew a chair up to the table.
"Deal me in," he drawled.
The atmosphere of the game seemed to change. It was as if all the players had united to fleece the newcomer, with the bearded desperado leading the attack.
At first, Kid Wolf lost, and the gambler—called "Blacksnake" McCoy by the other men—added to his chip stacks. Then the game seesawed, after which the Texan began to win small bets steadily. But the crisis was coming. Sooner or later, Blacksnake would try to run Kid Wolf out, and the Texan knew it.
The size of the bets increased, and a little crowd began to gather about the stud table. In spite of the fact that Blacksnake was a swaggering, abusive-mouthed fellow, the sympathies of the Longhorn loafers seemed to be with him.
He seemed to be a sort of leader among them, and a group of sullen-eyed gunmen were looking on, expecting to see Kid Wolf beaten in short order.
Finally a tenseness in the very air testified to the fact that the time for big action had come. The pot was already large, and all had dropped out except Blacksnake and the drawling stranger.
"I'm raisin' yuh five hundred, 'Cotton-picker,'" sneered the bearded man insolently.
He had a pair of aces in sight—a formidable hand—and if his hole card was also an ace, Kid Wolf had not a chance in the world. The best the Texan could show up was a pair of treys.