W.W. Rhynne, his face expressionless, had finished glancing from the two kings in his hand to the stacked pile of coins in the pot on the green baize table. W.W. had played a patient game, betting on his good hands, folding quietly on the bad. Now he’d bluffed for the first time, risking his entire stake, and he’d been called. “Let’s see the color of your cards,” McDowell demanded. Rhynne shrugged. He figured McDowell for three of a kind. “What’s that?” Garrison, on Rhynne’s left, looked up, startled. What he’d heard was a shout from the street below, and it was quite loud. “It’s Sam Brannan,” a man at the window reported shrugging. “Appears he’s back from Sutter’s Fort.” A burly man threw open the saloon door and came running upstairs. His black hair was tangled, his clothes disheveled. “Gold!” Sam Brannan shouted.
