They went down the street to the Eagle, and went inside. Angel was in a poker game, and he looked curiously at his father and his two undeniably drunk companions. He felt that his father had absorbed just as much liquor as the other two.
They had a drink. Old Rance hooked his elbows over the top of the bar and gazed around his son’s premises. It was the first time he had ever been in there since Angel had owned it. Angel, apparently absorbed in his game, kept an eye on the old man, who walked steadily over to a black-jack table, where one cowboy was making two-bit bets, and threw down a twenty-dollar bill.
His two cards showed an ace and a jack—a natural—and the dealer paid him thirty dollars. Old Rance left the fifty on the board. He won on the next deal, and let the hundred ride. The dealer looked curiously at the hard-faced old man. Hundred-dollar bets were uncommon at black-jack.
Another ace and a jack fell to the old man, and the dealer counted out a hundred and fifty. That was left with the hundred, and again the old man won. There was now five hundred in front of old Rance.
“You playin’ for the pile?” queried the dealer.
Old Rance nodded. His two cards showed two kings. After a moment of inspection he drew out his roll of bills, counted out another five hundred, split the two kings, and indicated that he would make a double bet. His next two cards were an ace and a queen, making him twenty-one and twenty. The best the dealer could do was to make eighteen.
Slowly he counted out the money to old Rance—one thousand dollars. There was now two thousand on the board. The dealer wet his lips and stared at the old man. He shifted his gaze and looked at Angel, who got up from the poker game and came over to the black-jack layout.
“Deal,” said the old man. The dealer looked at Angel for some kind of a signal.
“Two-thousand-dollar bet,” said the dealer nervously.
“Hundred dollars is the limit,” said Angel softly.