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Updated: June 12, 2025
His friend was staring at the ground sourly in a huge disgust at life and all that it contained. Miller limped painfully to the Jackpot in front of Hart. Two days later he took the train back to the penitentiary. Emerson Crawford made it a point to see to that.
He and Fenton had been winning, the pile of blue counters beside the latter representing nearly thirty dollars, with enough red and white ones to cover his original investments. The first jackpot and the second were played, Dr. Wilson wining one and Snaffle the other on the first hand. On the third, Fenton bet for awhile, holding three aces against a full hand held by the fifth man.
A laugh snapped the tension. The Jackpot engineer pointed to a figure emerging from the arroyo. The man who came dejectedly into view was large and fat and dripping. He was weeping curses and trying to pick cactus burrs from his anatomy. Dismal groans punctuated his profanity. "It stranded me right on top of a big prickly pear," he complained.
"They must 'a' blew the dam up. Them shots we heard!" one ventured without spirit. "Who blew it up?" demanded one of the Jackpot men belligerently. "If you say we did, you're a liar." He was speaking the truth so far as he knew. The man who had been through the waters did not take up the challenge. Officers in the army say that men will not fight on an empty stomach, and his was very empty.
He concentrated on it, he insisted, he willed it. But in vain he could make no impression whatever. Hanlon withdrew his mind. "I've no control," he thought to himself. "I can't take over his mind in any way. Neither can I read his past; just his present thoughts. That's not too bad, although I hoped I had hit the jackpot at last."
From the bootblack at the hotel to the banker, everybody wanted stock in every company drilling within a reasonable distance of Jackpot Number Three. Many legitimate incorporations appeared on the books of the Secretary of State, and along with these were scores of frauds intended only to gull the small investor and separate him from his money.
He's in this Jackpot company too, isn't he?" "He's president of it. If he says the company's right, then it's right." "Bring him in to me." West reported to his friends, a large smile on his wrinkled face. "I got him goin' south, boys. Come along, Em, it's up to you now." The big financier took one comprehensive look at Emerson Crawford and did not need any letter of recommendation.
Irish interpreted it as encouragement to sail in and clean up the bunch. There was money enough in sight to build that fence when he sat down. Irish pulled his hat farther over his eyebrows, rolled and lighted a cigarette while he waited for that particular jackpot to be taken, and covertly sized up the players. Every one of them was strange to him.
We're going back where I don't have to sit around like a puling fool and watch Thornton chuck you under the chin we're going where he'll want a tombstone if he ever shows his face there. You thought the game would hold me to the last jackpot did you? Well, I've got enough and there's no game big enough to make me stand for this. That looks like love doesn't it?"
Jimmie Greeley was raking in a jackpot, grinning fiendishly at the dour Jim Hutch when they heard heavy, running feet outside. The door crashed open and a frightened, half-grown lad shouted: "Where's the sheriff? Charlie Price has been hung!" "What!" "On a tree near the Widow Schmitt's. I saw him. I know well the sailor coat that he wears and his best red-topped boots. Where's the sheriff?"
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