W. C. Tuttle

“ I can’t afford to have anything happen to my Luck.”
“They all know me,” said Luck quickly. “Nothing will harm me.”
Sleed shook his head.
“I—I dunno about that, Luck. If trouble started, nobody knows where bullets will hit.”
Luck brushed the hair away from her eyes and glanced down toward the quiet street.
“Everybody says that you own Calico, Dad. If you do, why don’t you stop the trouble? Does there have to be somebody killed every day? Isn’t there some way to stop men from fighting and killing each other?” ”

“ From out on the street came the voice of the Saint:
“It can’t be beat, folks. The more you lay down, the less you pick up. The hand is quicker than the eye, and this game was designed to prove it to you. Don’t bet, unless you want to lose.”
Duke watched Sleed closely, as he stared down at the pot.
“It’s luck that wins, Sleed; and you’re losin’ your luck.”
“What do you mean?” snapped Sleed, sitting up straight in his chair. “What do you mean?”
“She’s leavin’ you, Sleed. You know it, too. Shove in your money and prove it with the cards. It’s luck now. I’ll show you my card.” ”

“ Staring down at the card, Sleed half-slumped forward in his chair, as he tried to estimate his loss. It was more money than he dared estimate. He looked up at Duke, who was rolling a cigarette.
“Count the chips, Sleed,” said Duke, “and give me your I. O. U. for it. I’ll take your count.”
Duke got to his feet and brushed the crumbs of tobacco off the folds of his shirt, while Sleed stared up at him. His I. O. U.! Sleed’s eyes shifted and he saw Loper looking at him inquiringly. Swiftly Sleed counted the chips, stacking them in rows across the table. ”