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The boys, coming up with the horse, met Cutler, who listened to how Duster had stood still as soon as he had kicked free of his saddle, making no objection to being caught. They suggested that he would not have broken loose had he been tied with a rope; and hearing this, Cutler bit off a piece of tobacco, and told them they were quite right: a horse should never be tied by his bridle. For a savory moment the scout cuddled his secret, and turned it over like the tobacco lump under his tongue. Then he explained, and received serenely the amazement of Loomis and Kelley.

“When you kids have travelled this Western country awhile you’ll keep your cards locked,” said he.” He’s going to let us win first. You’ll see, he’ll play a poor game with the pink deck. Then, if we don’t call for fresh cards, why, he’ll call for ’em himself. But, just for the fun of the thing, if any of us loses steady, why, we’ll call. Then, when he gets hold of his strippers, watch out. When he makes his big play, and is stretchin’ for to rake the counters in, you grab ’em, Joole; for by then I’ll have my gun on him, and if he makes any trouble we’ll feed him to the coyotes. I expect that must have been it, boys,” he continued, in a new tone, as they came within possible ear-shot of the half-breed in the cabin. “A coyote come around him where he was tied. The fool horse has seen enough of ’em to git used to ’em, you’d think, but he don’t. There; that’ll hold him. I guess he’ll have to pull the world along with him if he starts to run again.”

The lamp was placed on the window-shelf, and the four took seats, Cutler to the left of Toussaint, with Kelley opposite. The pink cards fell harmless, and for a while the game was a dull one to see. Holding a pair of kings, Cutler won a little from Toussaint, who remarked that luck must go with the money of Uncle Sam. After a few hands, the half-breed began to bet with ostentatious folly, and, losing to one man and another, was joked upon the falling off of his game. In an hour’s time his blue chips had been twice reinforced, and twice melted from the neat often-counted pile in which he arranged them; moreover, he had lost a horse from his string down on Chug Water.

“Lend me ten dollar,” he said to Cutler. “You rich man now.”

In the next few deals Kelley became poor. “I’m sick of this luck,” said he.

“Then change it, why don’t you? Let’s have a new deck.” And Loomis rose.

“Joole, you always are for something new,” said Cutler. “Now I’m doing pretty well with these pink cards. But I’m no hog. Fetch on your fresh ones.”

The eyes of the half-breed swerved to the yellow curtain. He was by a French trapper from Canada out of a Sioux squaw, one of Red Cloud’s sisters, and his heart beat hot with the evil of two races, and none of their good. He was at this moment irrationally angry with the men who had won from him through his own devices, and malice undisguised shone in his lean flat face. At sight of the blue cards falling in the first deal, silence came over the company, and from the distant parade-ground the bugle sounded the melancholy strain of taps. Faint, far, solemn, melodious, the music travelled unhindered across the empty night.

“Them men are being checked off in their bunks now,” said Cutler.

“What you bet this game?” demanded Toussaint.

“I’ve heard ’em play that same music over a soldier’s grave,” said Kelley.

“You goin’ to bet?” Toussaint repeated.

Cutler pushed forward the two necessary white chips. No one’s hand was high, and Loomis made a slight winning. The deal went its round several times, and once, when it was Toussaint’s, Cutler suspected that special cards had been thrown to him by the half-breed as an experiment. He therefore played the gull to a nicety, betting gently upon his three kings; but when he stepped out boldly and bet the limit, it was not Toussaint but Kelley who held the higher hand, winning with three aces. Why the coup should be held off longer puzzled the scout, unless it was that Toussaint was carefully testing the edges of his marked cards to see if he controlled them to a certainty. So Cutler played on calmly. Presently two aces came to him in Toussaint’s deal, and he wondered how many more would be in his three-card draw. Very pretty! One only, and he lost to Loomis, who had drawn three, and held four kings. The hands were getting higher, they said. The game had “something to it now.” But Toussaint grumbled, for his luck was bad all this year, he said. Cutler had now made sure that the aces and kings went where the half-breed wished, and could be slid undetected from the top or the middle or the bottom of the pack; but he had no test yet how far down the scale the marking went. At Toussaint’s next deal Cutler judged the time had come, and at the second round of betting he knew it. The three white men played their parts, raising each other without pause, and again there was total silence in the cabin. Every face bent to the table, watching the turn repeat its circle with obstinate increase, until new chips and more new chips had been brought to keep on with, and the heap in the middle had mounted high in the hundreds, while in front of Toussaint lay his knife and a match-box–pledges of two more horses which he had staked. He had drawn three cards, while the others took two, except Cutler, who had a pair of kings again, and drawing three, picked up two more. Kelley dropped out, remarking he had bet more than his hand was worth, which was true, and Loomis followed him. Their persistence had surprised Toussaint a little. He had not given every one suspicious hands: Cutler’s four kings were enough. He bet once more, was raised by the scout, called, and threw down his four aces.