“One of the Sydney coves?”

“Not quite so loud,” the other cautioned hastily.  “They call him that—­behind his back.  But who’s to tell?  I’d like to get the lad out of his clutches well enough.”

“Think I’ll watch the game,” Potts said, and sauntered to the table.  He laid a friendly hand on Windham’s shoulder.  Benito’s pile of coin was nearly gone.  McTurpin dealt.  It was a jack-pot, evidently, for a heavy stake of gold and silver was upon the center of the board.  Benito’s hand shook as he raised his cards.  He reached forth and refilled his glass, gulping the contents avidly.

“Dos cartos,” he replied in Spanish to the dealer’s inquiry.  Potts glanced at the three cards which Benito had retained.  Each was a king.

The young man eyed his first draw with a slight frown and seemed to hesitate before he lifted up the second.  Then a little sucking gasp came from his throat.

“Senor,” he began as McTurpin eyed him curiously, “I have little left to wager.  Luck has been my enemy of late.  Yet,” he smiled a trembling little smile, “I hold certain cards which give me confidence.  I should like to play a big stake—­once, before I leave—­”

“How big?” asked McTurpin, coldly, but his eye was eager.

The Spanish-American faced him straightly.  “As big as you like, amigo ... if you will accept my note.”

McTurpin’s teeth shut with a click.  “What security, young fellow?” he demanded.

“My ranch,” replied Benito.  “It is worth, they say, ten thousand of your dollars.”

McTurpin covered his cards with his hands.  “You want to lay me this ranch against—­what?”

“Five thousand dollars—­that is fair enough,” Benito answered.  He was trembling with excitement.  McTurpin watched him hawk-like, seeming to consider.  “Bring us ink and paper, Jack,” he called to Cooper, and when the latter had complied, he wrote some half a dozen lines upon a sheet.

“Sign that.  Get two witnesses ... you, Jack, and this fellow here,” he indicated Potts imperiously.  He laid his cards face down upon the table and extracted deftly from some inner pocket a thick roll of greenbacks.  Slowly, almost meticulously, he counted them before the gaping tableful of players.  Fifty hundred-dollar bills.

“American greenbacks,” he spoke crisply.  “A side bet with our friend, the Senor Windham.”  He shoved the money toward the center of the table, slightly apart from the rest.

Benito waveringly picked up the pen.  It shook in his unsteady fingers.  “Wait,” Potts pleaded.  But the young man brooked no intervention.  With a flourish he affixed his signature.  McTurpin picked up the pen as Benito dropped it.  “Put your name on as a witness,” he demanded of the host.  “Jack the Sailor” shook his head.  “I’ve no part in this,” he said, and turned his back upon them.  “Nor I,” Potts answered to a similar invitation.

McTurpin took the paper.  “Well, it doesn’t matter.  You’ve all seen him sign it:  You ... and you ... and you.”  His finger pointed to a trio of the nearest players, and their nods sufficed him, evidently.  He weighted the contract with a gold-piece from his own plethoric pile.