“Show-down.”

“Cut!” once more peremptorily from Rance; and then, when she had cut, one question more:  “Best two out of three?”

“Best two out of three.”  Swift, staccato sentences, like the rapid crossing of swords, the first preliminary interchange of strokes before the true duel begins.

Rance dealt the cards.  Before either looked at them, he glanced across at the Girl and asked scornfully, perhaps enviously: 

“What do you see in him?”

“What do you see in me?” she flashed back instantly, as she picked up her cards; and then:  “What have you got?”

“King high,” declared the gambler.

“King high here,” echoed the Girl.

“Jack next,” and he showed his hand.

“Queen next,” and the Girl showed hers.

“You’ve got it,” conceded the gambler, easily.  Then, in another tone, “but you’re making a mistake—­”

“If I am, it’s my mistake!  Cut!”

Rance cut the cards.  The Girl dealt them steadily.  Then,

“What have you got?” she asked.

“One pair,—­aces.  What have you?”

“Nothing,” throwing her cards upon the table.

With just a flicker of a smile, the Sheriff once more gathered up the pack, saying smoothly: 

“Even now,—­we’re even.”

“It’s the next hand that tells, Jack, ain’t it?”

“Yes.”

“It’s the next hand that tells me,—­I’m awfully sorry,—­” the words seemed to come awkwardly; her glance was troubled, almost contrite, “at any rate, I want to say jest now that no matter how it comes out—­”

“Cut!” interjected Rance mechanically.

“—­that I’ll always think of you the best I can,” completed the Girl with much feeling.  “An’ I want you to do the same for me.”

Silently, inscrutably, the gambler dealt the ten cards, one by one.  But as the Girl started to draw hers toward her, his long, thin fingers reached across once more and closed not ungently upon hand and cards.

“The last hand, Girl!” he reminded her.  “And I’ve a feeling that I win,—­that in one minute I’ll hold you in my arms.”  And still covering her fingers with his own, he stole a glance at his cards.

“I win,” he announced, briefly, his eyes alone betraying the inward fever.  He dropped the cards before her on the table.  “Three kings,—­and the last hand!”

Suddenly, as though some inward cord had snapped under the strain, the Girl collapsed.  Limply she slid downward in her chair, one groping hand straying aimlessly to her forehead, then dropping of its own weight.  “Quick, Jack,—­I’m ill,—­git me somethin’!” The voice trailed off to nothingness as the drooping eyelids closed.

In real consternation, the Sheriff sprang to his feet.  In one sweeping glance his alert eye caught the whisky bottle upon the mantel.  “All right, Girl, I’ll fix you in no time,” he said cheeringly over his shoulder.  But where the deuce did she keep her tumblers?  The next minute he was groping for them in the dark of the adjoining closet and softly cursing himself for his own slowness.