“Reckon, boss, thet yellow streak is operatin'!” sang out Jesse Smith.
But neither gold, nor Gulden, nor men, nor taunts ruined Kells at this perhaps most critical crisis of his life. It was the mad, clutching, terrible opportunity presented. It was the strange and terrible nature of the wager. What vision might have flitted through the gambler's mind! But neither vision of loss nor gain moved him. There, licking like a flame at his soul, consuming the good in him at a blast, overpowering his love, was the strange and magnificent gamble. He could not resist it.
Speechless, with a motion of his hand, he signified his willingness.
“Blicky, shuffle the cards,” boomed Gulden.
Blicky did so and dropped the deck with a slap in the middle of the table.
“Cut!” called Gulden.
Kells's shaking hand crept toward the deck.
Jim Cleve suddenly appeared to regain power of speech and motion. “Don't, Kells, don't!” he cried, piercingly, as he leaped forward.
But neither Kells nor the others heard him, or even saw his movement.
Kells cut the deck. He held up his card. It was the king of hearts. What a transformation! His face might have been that of a corpse suddenly revivified with glorious, leaping life.