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"A half-breed lookout," the Texan explained in a whisper. "Ugly, but slow with a gun. He had the drop, so instead of reachin' fo' mah Colts, I pretended to raise mah hands. Then I gave him this mah hole cahd, the thirteenth ace." And Kid Wolf showed him the heavy bowie knife so carefully hidden in its sheath sewn to the inside of his shirt collar.
"We're in fo' a siege," Kid Wolf told the elder Robbins. "Maybe we'd better give in to 'em," said the other. Kid Wolf smiled and shook his head. "That wouldn't save us. They'd butchah us, anyway. Nevah yuh worry. Before they get us, they'll find that The Wolf, from Texas, has teeth!" "Then we'll play out the hand," agreed Robbins. "To the last cahd," Kid Wolf drawled.
"Just fancy, he didn't let me win a single cahd, not one cahd." He took the lighted pipe that was offered to him, gripped it in his fist, and tapped it on the floor, making the sparks fly, while he continued to shout. "He lets one win the singles and collahs it as soon as one doubles it; gives the singles and snatches the doubles!"
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