An' as the papers is shoved forth, how do you-all reckon they falls! I'm a Mexican! if they don't come seven-king! This Holliday wins all along; Cherokee is out thirty thousand an' only three kyards showed! How's that for perishin' flesh an' blood! "I looks at Cherokee; his face is as ca'm as a Injun's; he's too finely fibred a sport to so much as let a eyelash quiver.

This Holliday is equally onemotional.

Cherokee shoves over three yaller chips.
"'Call 'em ten thousand each,' says Cherokee.

Then he waits for this Holliday to place his next bets.
"'Since you-all has exackly that sum left in your treasury,' observes this Holliday, puffin' his seegyar, 'I reckons I'll let one of these yaller tokens go, coppered, on the high kyard ag'in.

You-all doubles or breaks right yere.' "The turn falls trey-eight.