ants. There was the honey trail. There was his own, hard decision to live. And, years earlier, he had been a professional faro dealer at Silver City.
Another ace had joined the first at the bottom of the deck. The third. The fourth.
And then Farragut Hutchison's violent: "Deal, man, deal! You're driving me crazy. Get it over with."
The sweat had been pouring from Stuart McGregor's face. His blood had throbbed in his veins. Something like a sledge hammer had drummed at the base of his skull.
"Cut, won't you?" he had said, his voice coming as if from very far away.
The other had waved a trembling hand. "No, no! Deal 'em as they lie. You won't cheat me."
Stuart McGregor had cleared a little space on the ground with the point of his shoe.
He remembered the motion. He remembered how the dead leaves had stirred with a dry, rasping, tragic sound, how something slimy and phosphorous-green had squirmed through the tufted jungle grass, how a little furry scorpion had scurried away with a clicking tchk-tchk-tchk.
He had dealt.
