“Hittin’ close,” said the old man.
Angel licked his lips and dealt the next two slowly—ten, deuce.
“How far for the first shot?” he asked hoarsely.
“Width of the room. Can’t miss. Deal.” Queen, deuce.
“Runnin’ small on yore side,” observed the old man.
Angel licked his lips again and his right hand trembled, as he dealt himself a trey to Rance’s second king.
“Why don’tcha git it over with, Angel?” taunted the old man. “Losin’ yore nerve?”
But Angel did not reply. His eyes were staring at the cards as they fell. The deck was getting thin now. Not over a dozen cards left. It was difficult for him to swallow. The oil was low in the lamp, and it had begun to smoke a little.
Six cards left. Ace of diamonds, seven of hearts. Only four left. His hands felt heavy as lead. He wanted to say something, but his mouth was too dry. With a super-effort he managed to deal the next two cards—two deuces.
There were only two cards left in his hand; two old dog-eared cards that held his fate. He stared down at them as though fascinated. He looked across the table at the face of his father, who was laughing at him. Slowly his right hand went to his lips—a hand that trembled a tattoo against his mouth—and with a strangled word he dropped the two cards on the floor, turned on his heel, and stumbled to the door. He flung the door open, and a moment later came the staccato drumming of his horse’s hoofs, as he rode swiftly away from the ranch.