Me Smith

high with confidence and hope. Big prospects loomed ahead of him; success looked easy. He flung his money recklessly upon the red and black, and with throbbing pulses watched the wheel go round.
    Again and again he won. It seemed as if he could not lose.
    “I told you!” he cried. “I’m feelin’ lucky!”
    When he finally stopped, his winnings were the envy of many eyes.
    “Set ’em up, Tinhorn! Everybody drink! Bring in the horses!”
    Bedlam reigned. It was “Smithy this” and “Smithy that,” and it was all as the breath of life to Smith.
    “Tinhorn”—he leaned heavily on the bar—“when I feels lucky like this, I makes it a rule to crowd my luck. Are you game for stud?”
    The film which the lounger had mentioned seemed to cover Tinhorn’s eyes.
    “I’m locoed to set agin such luck as yours, but I like to be sociable, and you don’t come often.”
    “I likes a swift game,” said Smith, as he pulled a chair from the pine table. “Draw is good enough for kids and dudes, but stud’s the only play for men.”
    “Now you’ve talked!” declared the admiring throng.
    “Keep ’em movin’, Tinhorn! Deal ’em out fast.”
    “Smithy, you’re a cyclone!”
    A hundred of Smith’s money went for chips.
    “Dough is jest like mud to some fellers,” said a voice enviously.
    “I likes a game where you make or break on a hand. I’ve lost thousands while you could spit, me—Smith!”
    “It’s like a chinook in winter just to see you in town agin, Smithy.”
    The “hole” card was not promising—it was only a six-spot; but, backing his luck, Smith bet high on it. Tinhorn came back at him strong. He wanted Smith’s money, and he wanted it quick.
    Smith’s next card was a jack, and he bet three times its value. When Tinhorn dealt him another jack he bought more chips and backed his pair, for Tinhorn, as yet, had none in sight. The next turn showed up a queen for Tinhorn and a three-spot for Smith. And they bet and raised, and raised again. On the last turn Smith drew another three and Tinhorn another queen. With two pairs in sight, Smith had him beaten. When Smith bet, Tinhorn raised him. Was Tinhorn bluffing or did he have another queen in the “hole”? Smith believed he was bluffing, but there was an equal chance that he was not. While he hesitated, the other watched him like a hungry mountain lion.
    “Are you gettin’ cold feet, Smithy?” There was the suspicion of a sneer in the satellite’s voice. “Did you say you liked to make or break on a hand?”
    “I thought you liked a swift game,” gibed Tinhorn.
    The taunt settled it.
    “I can play as swift as most—and then, some.” He shoved a pile of chips into the centre of the table with both hands. “Come again!”
    Tinhorn did come again; and again, and again, and again. He bet with the confidence of knowledge—with a confidence that put the fear in Smith’s heart. But he could not, and he would not, quit now. His jaw was set as he pulled off banknote after banknote in the tense silence which had fallen.
    When the last of them fluttered to the table he asked:
    “What you got?”
    For answer, Tinhorn turned over a third queen. Encircling the pile of money and chips with his arm, he swept them toward him.
    Smith rose and kicked the chair out of his way.
    “That’s the end of my rope,” he said, with a hard laugh. “I’m done.”
    “Have a drink,” urged Tinhorn.
    “Not to-day,” he answered shortly.
    The crowd parted to let him pass. Untying his horse, he sprang into the saddle, and not much more than an hour from the time he had arrived he rode down the main street, past the bank where he was to leave his roll, flat broke.
    At the end of the street he turned in his saddle and looked behind him. His satellites stood in the bar-room door, loungers loafed on the curbstone, a woman or two drifted into the General Merchandise Store. The Postmaster was eying him idly through his fly-specked window, and a group of boys, who had been drawing pictures with their bare toes in the deep white dust of the street, scowled after him because his horse’s feet had spoiled their work. His advent had left no more impression than the tiny whirlwind in its erratic and momentary flurry. The money for which he had sweat blood was gone. Mechanically he jambed his hands into his empty pockets.
    “Hell!” he said bitterly. “Hell!”
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XVII
SUSIE HUMBLES HERSELF TO SMITH
    Smith’s return to the ranch was awaited with keen