“King-high bets,” intoned Sleed.
Duke shoved in all of his chips. Sleed glanced sharply at him, but covered the bet, and dealt the rest of the hand. The result showed a pair of kings for Duke and a pair of jacks for Sleed.
The next deal doubled Duke’s money again, and he bet half of it on his hole-card. Again he won. Sleed shifted nervously in his chair, while miners crowded in around to watch the play. Sleed knew that there was no chance for a crooked play, and he trusted to luck to win.
Pot after pot went to Duke Steele, doubling his money on each hand, until the onlookers gasped at the wonderful run of luck. Duke was plunging; betting a fortune on his first card. And Sleed’s prestige in the town demanded that he follow suit, although it broke him.
Sleed called for another rack of chips, new cards, whiskey, praying that something would happen to break the devilish luck of this hard-eyed gambler.
Another deal, and Duke bet two thousand dollars on his first card. Sleed glanced at the bet and doubled the size of it.
“Feel it comin’ on?” queried Duke. It was the first word Duke had spoken since he had inquired about the limit.
Sleed’s eyes narrowed at the question, but he did not reply. Duke shoved in the extra two thousand, and with it went every chip in front of him. Stacks of blue and red, at five and ten dollars for each chip—a king’s ransom. Sleed licked his lips and studied the pot.
“Your luck or mine,” said Duke softly. “You’re rich, Sleed, but are yuh game? It’s a man-sized pot.”