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 nine, 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.