No man in Battle Butte was a better poker psychologist than Dingwell, but to-night cards did not interest him.  He was playing a bigger game.  His subconscious mind was alert for developments.  Since only his surface attention was given to poker he played close.

While Rutherford dealt the cards he talked at Dave.  “So you’re expecting Sweeney, are you?  Been having trouble with any one?”

“Or expect to have any?” interjected Meldrum, insolence in his shifty pig eyes.

“No, not looking for any,” answered Dingwell amiably.  “Fact is, I was prospecting around Lonesome Park and found a gold mine.  Looks good, so I thought I’d tell Sweeney about it. . . .  Up to me?  I’ve got openers.”  He pushed chips to the center of the table.

Rutherford also pushed chips forward.  “I’ll trail along. . . .  You got an idea of taking in Sweeney as a partner?  I’m looking for a good investment. It would pay you to take me in rather than Sweeney.”

Three of those at the table accepted this talk at its face value.  They did not sense the tension underneath the apparently casual give-and-take.  Two of them stayed and called for cards.  But Dave understood that he had been offered a compromise.  Rutherford had proposed to divide the gold stolen from the express car, and the proffer carried with it a threat in case of refusal.

“Two when you get to me. . . .  No, I reckon I’ll stick to the sheriff.  I’ve kinda arranged the deal.”

As Rutherford slid two cards across to him the eyes of the men met.  “Call it off.  Sweeney is not the kind of a partner to stay with you to the finish if your luck turns bad.  When I give my word I go through.”

Dingwell looked at his cards.  “Check to the pat hand. . . .  Point is, Hal, that I don’t expect my luck to turn bad.”

“Hmp!  Go in with Sweeney and you’ll have bad luck all right. I’ll promise you that.  Better talk this over with me and put a deal through.”  He rapped on the table to show that he too passed without betting.

The curio dealer checked and entered a mild protest.  “Is this a poker game or a conversazione, gentlemen?  It’s stuck with Meldrum.  I reckon he’s off in Lonesome Park gold-mining the way he’s been listening.”

Meldrum brought his attention back to the game and bet his pat hand.  Dave called.  After a moment’s hesitation Rutherford threw down his cards.

“There’s such a thing as pushing your luck too far,” he commented.  “Now, take old man Crawford.  He was mightily tickled when his brother Jim left him the Frying Pan Ranch.  But that wasn’t good enough as it stood.  He had to try to better it by marrying the Swede hash-slinger from Los Angeles.  Later she fed him arsenic in his coffee.  A man’s a fool to overplay his luck.”

At the showdown Meldrum disclosed a four-card flush and the cattleman three jacks.

As Dave raked in the pot he answered Rutherford casually.  “Still, he hadn’t ought to underplay it either.  The other fellow may be out on a limb.”