The trey of spades!
Staring down at the card, Sleed half-slumped forward in his chair, as he tried to estimate his loss. It was more money than he dared estimate. He looked up at Duke, who was rolling a cigarette.
“Count the chips, Sleed,” said Duke, “and give me your I. O. U. for it. I’ll take your count.”
Duke got to his feet and brushed the crumbs of tobacco off the folds of his shirt, while Sleed stared up at him. His I. O. U.! Sleed’s eyes shifted and he saw Loper looking at him inquiringly. Swiftly Sleed counted the chips, stacking them in rows across the table.
“Forty-six thousand dollars,” he said hoarsely.
“Write it out,” said Duke indifferently.
Sleed got to his feet and walked to the bar, where he secured writing material. Laboriously he wrote out the I. O. U. and scrawled his signature at the bottom. Without looking at it, Duke pocketed it and went out of the door.
Loper and Fane had moved in close to the bar, and as Duke went out of the door, Sleed nodded to Loper and indicated for him to go ahead. Men were talking softly about the big game, the size of Sleed’s loss, the cold nerve of this stranger. A rumble of it came to Sleed’s ears and he grinned behind his beard. He was sure that he would never have to pay that I. O. U.
Voices came from the street arguing, laughing, quarreling. Sleed had turned away, as though to go toward the back of the room, but he swung around and walked to the door, drawn irresistibly by the drama he knew was about to be played.