"I see you, Mac," he said, "and I raise her a little thousand just so as not to keep Daylight out."
The concentrated gaze shifted to Daylight.
He likewise examined his draw and counted his five cards.
"I see that six thousand, and I raise her five thousand...just to try and keep you out, Jack."
"And I raise you five thousand just to lend a hand at keeping Jack out," MacDonald said, in turn.
His voice was slightly husky and strained, and a nervous twitch in the corner of his mouth followed speech.
Kearns was pale, and those who looked on noted that his hand trembled as he wrote his slip.
But his voice was unchanged.
"I lift her along for five thousand," he said.
Daylight was now the centre.
The kerosene lamps above flung high lights from the rash of sweat on his forehead.
The bronze of his cheeks was darkened by the accession of blood. His black eyes glittered, and his nostrils were distended and eager. They were large nostrils, tokening his descent from savage ancestors who had survived by virtue of deep lungs and generous air-passages.
Yet, unlike MacDonald, his voice was firm and customary, and, unlike Kearns, his hand did not tremble when he wrote.
"I call, for ten thousand," he said.
"Not that I'm afraid of you-all, Mac.
It's that hunch of Jack's."
"I hump his hunch for five thousand just the same," said MacDonald.
"I had the best hand before the draw, and I still guess I got it."
"Mebbe this is a case where a hunch after the draw is better'n the hunch before," Kearns remarked; "wherefore duty says,
'Lift her, Jack, lift her,' and so I lift her another five thousand."
Daylight leaned back in his chair and gazed up at the kerosene lamps while he computed aloud.
"I was in nine thousand before the draw, and I saw and raised eleven thousand—that makes thirty.
I'm only good for ten more."
He leaned forward and looked at Kearns.
"So I call that ten thousand."
"You can raise if you want," Kearns answered.
"Your dogs are good for five thousand in this game."
"Nary dawg.
You-all can win my dust and dirt, but nary one of my dawgs.
I just call."
MacDonald considered for a long time.
No one moved or whispered.
Not a muscle was relaxed on the part of the onlookers.
Not the weight of a body shifted from one leg to the other.
It was a sacred silence.
Only could be heard the roaring draft of the huge stove, and from without, muffled by the log-walls, the howling of dogs.
It was not every night that high stakes were played on the Yukon, and for that matter, this was the highest in the history of the country.
The saloon-keeper finally spoke.
"If anybody else wins, they'll have to take a mortgage on the Tivoli."
The two other players nodded.
"So I call, too." MacDonald added his slip for five thousand.
Not one of them claimed the pot, and not one of them called the size of his hand.
Simultaneously and in silence they faced their cards on the table, while a general tiptoeing and craning of necks took place among the onlookers.
Daylight showed four queens and an ace; MacDonald four jacks and an ace; and Kearns four kings and a trey.
Kearns reached forward with an encircling movement of his arm and drew the pot in to him, his arm shaking as he did so.
Daylight picked the ace from his hand and tossed it over alongside MacDonald's ace, saying:—
"That's what cheered me along, Mac.
I knowed it was only kings that could beat me, and he had them.
"What did you-all have?" he asked, all interest, turning to Campbell.
"Straight flush of four, open at both ends—a good drawing hand."