The gambler glanced quickly at the two top cards on the deck and was picking up those scattered on the table when his opponent turned around again. How that queen and ten had got two cards too deep puzzled him greatly—he was willing to wager even money that he would not look away again until the game was finished, not if all the cats in the world were being slaughtered. One hundred and ninety dollars was too much money to pay for being caught off his guard, as he was tempted to believe he had been. He did not know how much liquor the other had consumed, but he seemed to be sobering rapidly. The next few deals did not amount to much. Then a jackpot came around and was pushed hard. The puncher was dealing and as he picked up the deck after the cut he grinned and winked. "Th’ skirmishin’ now bein’ over, th’ battle begins. If that cat stays away long enough mebby I ’ll make a killin’." "All right; but don’t make no more gun-plays," warned the gambler, coldly. "I allus get excited when I smells gun-powder an’ I do reckless things sometimes," he added, significantly. "Then I shore hopes you keep ca’m," laughed the puncher, loud enough to be heard over the noise of the piano, which was now going again. The pot was sweetened three times and then the gambler dealt his opponent openers. The puncher looked anxiously through the door, grinning coltishly. He slowly pushed out twenty dollars. "There’s th’ key," he grunted. "A’right; see that an’ raise you back. Good for you! I’m stayin’ an’ boostin’ same as ever. Fine! See it again, an’ add this. I ’m playin’ with yore money, so I c’n afford to be reckless. All right; I’m satisfied, too. Gimme one li’l card. I shore am glad I don’t need th’ king of hearts—that was shore on th’ bottom when th’ deal _begun_." The gambler, having drawn, cursed and reached swiftly toward his vest pocket; but he stopped suddenly and contemplated the Colt that peeked over the edge of the table. It looked squarely at his short ribs and was backed by a sober, angry man who gazed steadily into his eyes. "Drop that hand," said the puncher in a whisper just loud enough to be heard by the other over the noise of the piano. "I never did like them shoulder holsters—I carry my irons where everybody can see ’em." Leaning forward swiftly he reached out his left hand and cautiously turned over the other’s cards. The fourth one was the king of hearts. "Don’t move," he whispered, not wishing to have the bartender take a hand from behind. "An’ don’t talk," he warned as he leaned farther forward and shoved his Colt against the other’s vest and with his left hand extracted a short-barreled gun from the sheath under the gambler’s armpit. Sinking back in his chair he listened a moment and, raking in the pot, stowed it away with the other winnings in his pockets.