With a cheerful laugh Blackwell raised in his turn.
“Lets me out,” Sam said.
For about a tenth of a second one could see triumph ride in Soapy’s eyes. “Different here,” he explained in a quiet businesslike way. All his chips were pushed forward to the center of the table.
On Blackwell’s face were mapped his thoughts. Curly saw his stodgy mind working on the problem, studying helplessly the poker eyes of his easy placid enemy. Was Soapy bluffing? Or had he baited a hook for him to swallow? The faintest glimmer of amusement drifted across the face of Stone. He might have been a general whose plans have worked out to suit him, waiting confidently for certain victory. The longer the convict looked at him the surer he was that he had been trapped.
With an oath he laid down his hand. “You’ve got me beat. Mine is only a jack high straight.”
Stone put down his cards and reached for the pot.
Curly laughed.
Blackwell whirled on him.
“What’s so condemned funny?”
“The things I notice.”