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As he walked to Pasquale's headquarters to make a report of the affair, Culvera's mind was full of vague suspicions. How had this man escaped? Had the old general freed him for some purpose of his own? Ramon had seen condemned prisoners released by his chief before. Always within a short time some enemy or doubtful friend of Pasquale had died a violent death. Was it his turn now?

A man don't play threes so strong as that." Culvera still smiled blandly, though his eyes were very watchful. "Me, I have what you call a hunch, Pheelip." Yeager took two steps forward. "You bet he did. Cold deck, kid. The other one is in his right-hand coat pocket." The suavity went out of Culvera's face as a light does from a blown candle.

The youngster answered. "I said a hundred bucks. I've got fifty-three in the pot now. That leaves forty-seven." Culvera's raise was forty-seven dollars. The big Mexican shrugged. "Too steep for Jesus Mendoza." He threw his cards into the discard. The boy who had been called Philip laid his cards face down on the table in front of him. "Call it," he announced hoarsely.

Culvera's smile glittered reminiscently: "The truth is that he thought our climate unhealthy. He was afraid of heart failure." Threewit scoffed openly. "Absurd. The man is the finest physical specimen I ever saw. If you had ever seen him on the back of an outlaw bronc, you'd know his heart was all right." The door of the room opened and Harrison came in.

Should he stand pat on his straight or discard the heart and draw to his straight flush? Culvera's play had shown great strength and would probably beat the pat hand. The lad took a chance and called for one card. Culvera drew two. He left them lying on the table while he discarded leisurely. "You're all in, Pheelip. It's a showdown. What you got?" Philip had drawn the six of clubs.

"Nobody. I'm not an assassin. The story I told you is the truth, general." "If that is true, Ramon Culvera's lies have brought you to your death." The Mexican still sprawled with an arm flung across the table. Not a muscle of his lax body had grown more taut.

He observed that Culvera's table manners were nice and particular, whereas those of his chief, though they ate off silver taken from the home of a Federal supporter during a raid, were uncouth in the extreme. He wolfed his food, throwing it into his mouth from knife or fork as rapidly as he could. Glancing up from his steak, Steve observed the brooding eye of Culvera upon him.