last Marks would call, and always his opponent had the
cards. It was exasperating, maddening, especially as several times Marks
himself was called on a bluff. The very fiend of ill-luck seemed to have
gotten into him, and as the game proceeded, Marks grew more flushed and
excited. He cursed audibly. He always had good cards, but always somehow
the other just managed to beat him. He became explosively angry and
abusive. The Halfbreed offered to retire from the game, but Marks would
not hear of it.

"Come on, you nigger!" he shouted. "Don't sneak away. Give me a chance
to get my money back."

So they sat down once more, and a hand was dealt. The Halfbreed called
for cards, but Marks did not draw. Then the betting began. After the
second round the others dropped out, and Marks and the Halfbreed were
left. The Halfbreed was inimitably cool, his face was a perfect mask.
Marks, too, had suddenly grown very calm. They started to boost each
other.

Both seemed to have plenty of money and at first they raised in tens and
twenties, then at last fifty dollars at a clip. It was getting exciting.
You could hear a pin drop. Bullhammer and the Prodigal watched very
quietly. Sweat stood on Marks's forehead, though the Halfbreed was
utterly calm. The jack-pot held about three hundred dollars. Then Marks
could stand it no longer.

"I'll bet a hundred," he cried, "and see you."

He triumphantly threw down a straight.

"There, now," he snarled, "beat that, you stinking Malamute."

There was a perceptible pause. I felt sorry for the Halfbreed. He could
not afford to lose all that money, but his face showed no shade of
emotion. He threw down his cards and there arose from us all a roar of
incredulous surprise.

For the Halfbreed had thrown down a royal flush in diamonds. Marks rose.
He was now livid with passion.

"You cheating swine," he cried; "you crooked devil!"

Quickly he struck the other on the face, a blow that drew blood. I
thought for a moment the Halfbreed would return the blow. Into his eyes
there came a look of cold and deadly fury. But, no! quickly bending
down, he scooped up the money and left the tent.

We stared at each other.

"Marvellous luck!" said the Prodigal.

"Marvellous hell!" shouted Marks. "Don't tell me it's luck. He's a
sharper, a dirty thief. But I'll get even. He's got to fight now. He'll
fight with guns and I'll kill the son of a dog."

He was drinking from the bottle in big gulps, fanning hi