“That’s all I got,” said Pete slowly. “I bet that.”
Mallette turned the edges of his cards slightly, a half-sneer on his lips, as he shoved out enough chips to cover the bet. Pete grinned, as he spread out the four sevens; but his grin faded when Mallette showed four kings and began raking in the pot.
Mallette nodded to the other dealer and started to slide his chair back from the table. Pete’s eyes were upon him; his lips twisted queerly.
“You—you thief!” choked the half-breed.
He jerked to his feet, reaching back for his gun. Jimmy Moran flung himself against Pete, blocking his draw, while another player twisted Pete’s gun from his hand. Mallette straightened up, his lips white.
“What’s that?” he snapped. “Who’s a thief?”
“You are!” rasped the enraged Pete. “Leave it to Jimmy Moran. He had that king of hearts in his hand. It was a dead card. You stole it, you thief!”
Mallette’s eyes shifted to Jimmy Moran, who was looking at him, his mouth half-open.
“By golly, I can’t remember,” said Jimmy. “Seems to me—no, I can’t say.”
“I reckon you can’t,” said Mallette dryly.