His opponent flipped over an ace of diamonds. “One pair here—aces.”
“Knew it all the time. Yore play gave it away,” jeered Bandy with obvious ill-temper.
“I reckon that’s why you kept raisin’,” Dud suggested, raking in the pot.
“All I needed was to hook a jack or another pair to beat you.”
“If I didn’t catch another ace or a small pair.”
The game was breaking up.
“Hell! I was playin’ poker before you could navigate, young fellow,” Bandy boasted. He had lost four dollars and was annoyed.
“An’ you’re still an optimist about hookin’ another pair when you need ’em.” Dud was counting his winnings placidly. “Six-fifty—seven—seven and two bits. Wish I had yore confidence in the music of the spears workin’ out so harmonious.”
This last was a reference to a book left at the ranch recently by the Reverend Melancthon Browning, the title of which was, “The Music of the Spheres.” Its philosophy was that every man makes his own world by the way he thinks about it.
Bandy jingled back to his bunk. He unstrapped his spurs, hooked one foot behind the knee of the other leg, and tried to work the wet boot off. The slippery leather stuck.