Dimonds glittered, casting shadows on the wall. The pearl handle held carved initials, but no one knew whose. The crowed was awed by the expensive gun that now held power over them all.

"Like they say, God didn't make all men equal, Mr. Colt did," the stranger laughed, a strange, powerful laugh that caused many people to forget the gun and look at the stranger with distrust magnified in their eyes. One man stared openly, glancing back and forth from the stranger to the young cowboy.

"Where did you get that gun," the cowboy asked suspicion lathered on every syllable. The initials couldn't belong to the stranger. At least, thats what he thought.

"I find that where I got it, is my business," the man said slyly while the crowd remained fixated on the gun.

"I find that hard to believe," the cowboy said, "that gun," he motioned to the pistol, "could belong to anyone. For all we know, you could have stolen it."

"Believe what you will, but I'm still waiting for you to show your hand," the stranger deftly sidled past the accusations thrown at him from his opponent. The cowboy glanced at his hand and tossed the cards on the table.

"Three tens," he said, reaching for the gun, "Jack high." The stranger suddenly laughed. Everyone stared. He laughed, and put his hand on the table. The cowboy reeled.

"I win. Again," the stranger said, his laugh dying out.

The crowd gaped.

The stranger laughed again. "Royal Flush."