Curly was not playing to win money so much as to study the characters of those present. Bill he knew already fairly well as a tough nut to crack, game to the core, and staunch to his friends. Blackwell was a bad lot, treacherous, vindictive, slippery as an eel. Even his confederates did not trust him greatly. But it was Soapy Stone and young Cullison that interested Flandrau most. The former played like a master. He chatted carelessly, but he overlooked no points. Sam had the qualities that go to make a brilliant erratic player, but he lacked the steadiness and the finesse of the veteran. The last play before they broke up in the gray dawn was a flashlight on Stone's cool audacity. The limit had long since been taken off. Blackwell and Stone had been the winners of the night, and the rest had all lost more or less. Curly was dealing, Cranston opened the pot. "She's cracked," he announced. Blackwell, sitting next to him, had been waiting his turn with palpable eagerness. "Got to boost her, boys, to protect Bill," he explained as his raise went in. Sam, who had drunk more than was good for him, raised in his turn. "Kick her again, gentlemen. Me, I'm plumb tired of that little song of mine, 'Good here'." Stone stayed. Curly did not come in. Cranston showed his openers and laid down his hand. Blackwell hesitated, then raised again. "Reckon I'm content to trail along," Cullison admitted, pushing in the necessary chips. Soapy rasped his stubby chin, looked sideways at Sam and then at Blackwell, and abruptly shaved in chips enough to call the raise. "Cards?" asked Curly. "I'll play these," Blackwell announced. Sam called for two and Stone one. Blackwell raised. Sam, grumbling, stayed. "Might as well see what you've got when I've gone this far," he gave as a reason for throwing good money after bad. Soapy took one glance at his new card and came in with a raise. Blackwell slammed his fist down on the table. "Just my rotten luck. You've filled." Stone smiled, then dropped his eyes to his cards. Suddenly he started. What had happened was plain. He had misread his hand. With a cheerful laugh Blackwell raised in his turn. "Lets me out," Sam said. For about a tenth of a second one could see triumph ride in Soapy's eyes. "Different here," he explained in a quiet businesslike way. All his chips were pushed forward to the center of the table. On Blackwell's face were mapped his thoughts. Curly saw his stodgy mind working on the problem, studying helplessly the poker eyes of his easy placid enemy. Was Soapy bluffing? Or had he baited a hook for him to swallow? The faintest glimmer of amusement drifted across the face of Stone. He might have been a general whose plans have worked out to suit him, waiting confidently for certain victory. The longer the convict looked at him the surer he was that he had been trapped. With an oath he laid down his hand. "You've got me beat. Mine is only a jack high straight."