“Ace, nine bets,” droned Angel, and Rance promptly bet the usual hundred dollars, and Angel passed. He turned over the ace he had buried, and shut his lips angrily when old Rance disclosed a deuce of clubs. Angel’s ace, nine, six, five would have beaten Rance’s ace, nine, six, trey.
“Of all the damned fool bettin’!” exclaimed Chuckwalla, who was still trying to smoke that frayed-out cigar. “Winnin’ over three hundred dollars on ace high.”
“Nerve,” corrected old Rance easily.
“Nerve!” sneered Angel. “You raised that first bet with a deuce in the hole and a six exposed. You’re crazy.”
“Just nerve,” said Rance coldly. “Somethin’ you ain’t got.”
“You think I ain’t?”
Old Rance leaned across the table, looking steadily at his son.
“How much nerve have yuh got, Angel?”
“I’ve got enough.”
“I wonder if yuh have. I’ve got about thirty-nine hundred of yore money right now, Angel. Have yuh got nerve enough to bet me another thirty-nine hundred that I don’t get the first ace off the deck?”