Rimrock Jones | Page 5

hand and as the betting ceased he slowly pushed out the
two cards.

"Tray loses, ace wins!" he announced and Rimrock won again.
Then he straightened up purposefully and looked about as he sorted his
winnings into piles.
"The whole works on the queen," he said to the dealer and a hush fell
upon the crowd.
"Where's Ike?" shrilled the dealer, but the boss was not to be found and
he dealt, unwillingly, for a queen. But the fear was on him and his thin
hands trembled; for Ike Bray was not the type of your frozen-faced
gambler--he expected his dealers to win. The dealer shoved them out,
and an oath slipped past his lips.
"Queen wins," he quavered, "the bank is broke." And he turned the box
on its side.
A shout went up--the glad yell of the multitude--and Rimrock rose up
grinning.
"Who said to pull out?" he demanded arrogantly, looking about for the
glowering L. W. "Huh, huh!" he chuckled, "quit your luck when you're
winning? Quit your luck and your luck will quit you--the drinks for the
house, barkeep!"
He was standing at the bar, stuffing money into his pockets, when Ike
Bray, the proprietor, appeared. Rimrock turned, all smiles, as he heard
his voice on the stairs and lolled back against the bar. More than once
in the past Bray had taken his roll but now it was his turn to laugh.
"Lemme see," he remarked as he felt Bray's eyes upon him, "I wonder
how much I win."
He drew out the bills from his faded overalls and began laboriously to
count them out into his hat.
Ike Bray stopped and looked at him, a little, twisted man with his hair
still rumpled from the bed.

"Where's that dealer?" he shrilled in his high, complaining voice. "I'll
kill the danged piker--that bank ain't broke yet--I got a big roll, right
here!"
He waved it in the air and came limping forward until he stood facing
Rimrock Jones.
"You think you broke me, do you?" he demanded insolently as
Rimrock looked up from his count.
"You can see for yourself," answered Rimrock contentedly, and held
out his well-filled hat.
"You're a piker!" yelled Bray. "You don't dare to come back at me. I'll
play you one turn win or lose--for your pile!"
A hundred voices rang out at once, giving Rimrock all kinds of advice,
but L. W.'s rose above them all.
"Don't you do it!" he roared. "He'll clean you, for a certainty!" But
Rimrock's blue eyes were aflame.
"All right, Mr. Man," he answered on the instant, and went over and sat
down in his chair. "But bring me a new pack and shuffle 'em clean, and
I'll do the cutting myself."
"Ahhr!" snarled Bray, who was in villainous humor, as he hurled
himself into his place. "Y'needn't make no cracks--I'm on the
square--and I'll take no lip from anybody!"
"Well, shuffle 'em up then," answered Rimrock quietly, "and when I
feel like it I'll make my bet."
It was the middle of the night, as Bray's days were divided, and even
yet he was hardly awake; but he shuffled the cards until Rimrock was
satisfied and then locked them into the box. The case-keeper sat
opposite, to keep track of the cards, and a look-out on the stand at one
end, and while a mob of surging onlookers fought at their backs they

watched the slow turning of the cards.
"Why don't you bet?" snapped Bray; but Rimrock jerked his head and
beckoned him to go on.
"Yes, and lose half on splits," he answered grimly, "I'll bet when it
comes the last turn."
The deal went on till only three cards remained in the bottom of the box.
By the record of the case-keeper they were the deuce and the jack--the
top card, already shown, did not count.
"The jack," said Rimrock and piled up his money on the enameled card
on the board.
"You lose," rasped out Bray without waiting for the turn and then drew
off the upper card. The jack lay, a loser, in the box below and as he
shoved it slowly out the deuce appeared underneath.
"How'd you know?" flashed back Rimrock as Bray reached for his
money, but the gambler laughed in his face.
"I outlucked you, you yap," he answered harshly. "That dealer--he
wasn't worth hell room!"
"Gimme a fiver to eat on!" demanded Rimrock as Bray banked the
money, but he flipped him fifty cents. It was the customary stake, the
sop thrown by the gambler to the man who has lost his last cent, and
Bray sloughed it without losing his count.
"Go on, now," he said, still keeping to the formula, "go back and polish
a drill!"
It was the form of dismissal for