The cook’s “Come and get it” broke up the game for a time. They trooped to supper, where for half an hour they discussed without words fried quail, cornbread and coffee. Such conversation as there was held strictly to necessary lines and had to do with the transportation of edibles.
Supper over, they smoked till the table was cleared. Then coats were removed and they sat down to the serious business of an all night session of draw.
Curly was not playing to win money so much as to study the characters of those present. Bill he knew already fairly well as a tough nut to crack, game to the core, and staunch to his friends. Blackwell was a bad lot, treacherous, vindictive, slippery as an eel. Even his confederates did not trust him greatly. But it was Soapy Stone and young Cullison that interested Flandrau most. The former played like a master. He chatted carelessly, but he overlooked no points. Sam had the qualities that go to make a brilliant erratic player, but he lacked the steadiness and the finesse of the veteran.
The last play before they broke up in the gray dawn was a flashlight on Stone’s cool audacity. The limit had long since been taken off. Blackwell and Stone had been the winners of the night, and the rest had all lost more or less.
Curly was dealing, Cranston opened the pot.
“She’s cracked,” he announced.
Blackwell, sitting next to him, had been waiting his turn with palpable eagerness. “Got to boost her, boys, to protect Bill,” he explained as his raise went in.
Sam, who had drunk more than was good for him, raised in his turn. “Kick her again, gentlemen. Me, I’m plumb tired of that little song of mine, ‘Good here’.”
Stone stayed. Curly did not come in.
Cranston showed his openers and laid down his hand. Blackwell hesitated, then raised again.