e, ten, and jack of clubs, the queen of
hearts, and the joker. This counted as a king-high straight. Steve,
standing back and to one side of him, guessed the boy's dilemma. Should
he stand pat on his straight or discard the heart and draw to his
straight flush? Culvera's play had shown great strength and would
probably beat the pat hand. The lad took a chance and called for one
card.

Culvera drew two. He left them lying on the table while he discarded
leisurely.

"You're all in, Pheelip. It's a showdown. What you got?"

Philip had drawn the six of clubs. He spread his hand with a sweeping
gesture. "All blue."

The Mexican shrugged. "Beats me unless I helped." He showed three
eights, then faced the two cards he had drawn. The first was a king of
diamonds, the second the fourth eight.

"Hard luck, Pheelip," he said, and all his teeth flashed in a friendly
smile as he opened both arms to rake in the chips.

Philip sat silent, his mind seething with suspicions. Culvera had played
his hand very strangely, unless--unless he had known that a fourth eight
was waiting for him in the deck. The boy looked up, in time to catch a
vanishing smile on the face of Mendoza.

"Just a moment, Ramon," he called sharply, covering the chips with his
hands. "That play--it don't look good to me. A man don't play threes so
strong as that."

Culvera still smiled blandly, though his eyes were very watchful. "Me, I
have what you call a hunch, Pheelip."

Yeager took two steps forward. "You bet he did. Cold deck, kid. The
other one is in his right-hand coat pocket."

The suavity went out of Culvera's face as a light does from a blown
candle. Snarling, he rose from his seat and faced the cowpuncher.

"Liar! Cabrone!" he hissed, reaching for his gun.

Already the revolver of Mendoza was flashing in the air.

Like a streak Steve's arm swept up. Twice his revolver sounded. There
was a crash of breaking glass from the incandescent lights. Yeager flung
himself against the table and drove it against Culvera who reeled back
against the wall and dropped his weapon. The sound of more shots, of men
dodging their way to safety, of a sharp cry followed by groans, had
trodden so swiftly on the heels of the range-rider's action that when he
turned a moment later he saw in the semi-darkness a smoke-filled room in
the confusion of chaotic movement.

Philip stood close to him, a smoking .38 in his hand, while Mendoza,
clutching at his chair for supp