One of the negligibles opened the pot. The bulky Mexican stayed.
In the slow, easy drawl of the Southwest the boy spoke. "Me, I reckon I'll have to tilt it. Got to protect your hand from these wolves, Dave." He pushed in a stack of blue chips.
The third American did not stay. It was now up to the dealer—his name, it appeared, was Ramon Culvera. After a moment's hesitation he measured a stack of blues by those the boy had put in the pot and added to it another pile of yellows. With a grunt of protest the older Mexican stayed. The man who had opened the pot dropped out.
"Enough's a-plenty. Me, I got no business trailing along with you hyenas," he explained.
"Different here," commented the boy. "My cards look good enough for another hike."
Culvera examined his hand carefully, met the raise, and picked up the deck.
The Mexican with the scar interposed. "But one moment, señor. Let us make it a good pot." He pushed in all the chips in front of him.
Yeager, standing against the wall, caught the swift flash of surprise in the eyes of the boy. He counted the chips of the Mexican and then his own. These he added to the small fortune in the center of the table.
"Call it. I'm fifty-three shy," he said in an even voice.
The range-rider knew without being told that this hand had been dealt from a cold deck for the express purpose of cleaning out the boy. From the tenseness of the lithe body, which had become, as it were, a coiled spring, he knew that the lad's suspicions were stirring to life.