“’S hard to fool a buzzard, y’betcha.”
“Croakin’ old pup,” growled Loper, and the three of them went back into the saloon.
The Saint secured his little table again and set it up in the street. Several dogs went out and investigated, and started a fight, as though there was a serious difference of opinion over the reasons for a table in the street.
Duke Steele watched the Saint with misgivings. He was sure that Silver Sleed would object strenuously to such a proceeding, but the Saint gave no heed to his warnings. For the last hour the Saint had seemed another person; entirely different from the philosophical old man. His mop of white hair seemed to lift aggressively, and the hawk-like nose seemed more like an eagle’s beak.
He had put his extra cartridges in his pocket and shoved his six-shooter inside the waistband of his pants, where he could get it without reaching under his coat. Duke had noted these preparations silently, but had looked to his own gun and ammunition. He was willing to follow the Saint’s lead and he wanted to be prepared for anything.
Duke went into the saloon and sat down at a poker table, where Sleed was dealing a game of stud. Sleed studied Duke from under the brim of his hat, as he slid a stack of chips across the table to him.
“The limit?” queried Duke.
“The sky,” replied Sleed.
The Saint had split his winnings with Duke, and now Duke shoved the rest of the bills over to Sleed, taking chips in exchange. It was a small betting game, and the pots were uninteresting. Sleed covered a yawn with his hand, and Duke nodded, as though at a spoken word.
Duke smiled grimly as Sleed dealt the first card to each man. He shoved in part of a stack of chips, and Sleed covered the bet, wondering why Duke made such a bet on a hole-card. The two miners passed, leaving Sleed and Duke to fight it out. Duke drew a king and Sleed a jack.