ed of a good sport.

They were playing jack pots with a stripped deck, the joker going as a
fifth ace or to fill a straight or a flush. Several hands were dealt
without any stayers. The slender Mexican was dealing when the sensation
of the game was handed out.

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, senor. 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.

The greedy little eyes of Culvera fastened on the boy. He made his first
mistake. "How much you play back, Pheelip?"

The youngster answered. "I said a hundred bucks. I've got fifty-three in
the pot now. That leaves forty-seven."

Culvera's raise was forty-seven dollars. The big Mexican shrugged. "Too
steep for Jesus Mendoza." He threw his cards into the discard.

The boy who had been called Philip laid his cards face down on the table
in front of him.

"Call it," he announced hoarsely. His eyes were fastened steadily on the
nimble brown fingers of the dealer.

"Cards?" asked Culvera with an indolent lift of his eyebrows.

Philip hesitated. He had the nin