The sun was setting over the Dusty Mountain Range, as the local corn farmer sat, looking back and forth between the cards in his hand and the stranger who'd came in on the last stagecoach.
The farmer was sure he had the best hand. He had four of a kind, sure it was a low set, but it was still four of a kind! He had him!
But that damn smile he had, it made him question it, until finally, he called.
The stranger only had three of a kind at the table.
He had a pair in his revolver.
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