“Say, is it any of your business how I play my cards?” demanded Meldrum, thrusting his chin toward Dingwell.

“Absolutely none,” replied Dave evenly.

“Cut that out, Dan,” ordered Rutherford curtly.

The ex-convict mumbled something into his beard, but subsided.

Two hours had slipped away before Dingwell commented on the fact that the sheriff had not arrived.  He did not voice his suspicion that the Mexican had been intercepted by the Rutherfords.

“Looks like Sweeney didn’t get my message,” he said lazily.  “You never can tell when a Mexican is going to get too tired to travel farther.”

“Better hook up with me on that gold-mine proposition, Dave,” Hal Rutherford suggested again.

“No, I reckon not, Hal.  Much obliged, just the same.”

Dave began to watch the game more closely.  There were points about it worth noticing.  For one thing, the two strangers had a habit of getting the others into a pot and cross-raising them exasperatingly.  If Dave had kept even, it was only because he refused to be drawn into inviting pots when either of the strangers was dealing.  He observed that though they claimed not to have met each other before there was team work in their play.  Moreover, the yellow and blue chips were mostly piled up in front of them, while Meldrum, Rutherford, and the curio dealer had all bought several times.  Dave waited until his doubts of crooked work became certainty before he moved.

“The game’s framed.  Blair has rung in a cold deck on us.  He and Smith are playing in cahoots.”

Dingwell had risen.  His hands rested on the table as an assurance that he did not mean to back up his charge with a gunplay unless it became necessary.

The man who called himself Blair wasted no words in denial.  His right hand slid toward his hip pocket.  Simultaneously the fingers of Dave’s left hand knotted to a fist, his arm jolted forward, and the bony knuckles collided with the jaw of the tinhorn.  The body of the cattleman had not moved.  There seemed no special effort in the blow, but Blair went backward in his chair heels over head.  The man writhed on the floor, turned over, and lay still.

From the moment that he had launched his blow Dave wasted no more attention on Blair.  His eyes fastened upon Smith.  The man made a motion to rise.

“Don’t you,” advised the cattleman gently.  “Not till I say so, Mr. Smith.  There’s no manner of hurry a-tall.  Meldrum, see what he’s got in his right-hand pocket.  Better not object, Smith, unless you want to ride at your own funeral.”

Meldrum drew from the man’s pocket a pack of cards.

“I thought so.  They’ve been switching decks on us.  The one we’re playing with is marked.  Run your finger over the ace of clubs there, Hal. . . .  How about it?”

“Pin-pricked,” announced Rutherford.  “And they’ve garnered in most of the chips.  What do you think?”