For three hours they played. Every little while Hankins rose, and brought more drinks.
“On the game, gents, on the game!” he exclaimed each time.
Sometimes one was ahead, sometimes another, but no one had any decided advantage. Stephen played mechanically. The voices of the other men seemed to him far away, and indistinct.
Then the luck changed, and Loring began to win steadily. His success drew him on. He played recklessly, but by some sport of fate continued to win. He had a stiff smile upon his lips, and was evidently playing blindly.
“Say, Hankie, I guess we are being bitten,” remarked Jackson dryly.
“It sure looks that way. Mr. Loring here is a great player. We didn’t know what we were up against, did we?”
In his maudlin condition these words delighted Stephen. With only a pair of threes in his hand he pulled in a stack of chips, on which the others had dropped out.
Hankins was shuffling, preparatory to his deal. As he twisted the cards in his fingers, he gave a vivid, if immoral, account of his last trip to Tucson. Loring’s head was swimming, but he caught the words: “She was the stuff all right, all right.”
Suddenly Jackson jumped to his feet, and stood as if listening intently.
“I guess your caballo must be loose, Mr. Loring; seems to me I hear him sort of stamping round outside. Did you hitch him tight?”