The Curse of the Sand Tomb

The air in the Black Jack Saloon stank of stale whiskey, sweat, and desperation. Jack Carter hunched over the poker table, his calloused fingers clutching a pair of dog-eared cards-a jack of spades and a ten of hearts. Not a winning hand, not tonight. The flickering oil lamps cast jagged shadows across the room, painting the faces of the other players in shades of greed and menace. A pile of crumpled dollar bills and tarnished coins sat in the center, taunting him.
His pile, once respectable, had dwindled to a single silver dollar, spinning lazily under his thumb."Call or fold, Carter, " growled Amos Reed, the hulking rancher across the table. His cigar dangled from his lips, ash crumbling onto his stained vest. "Ain't got all night to watch you sweat."Jack's jaw tightened. He'd seen Amos bluff before, but the man's cold blue eyes gave nothing away this time.
The saloon was quiet now, save for the creak of floorboards under a drunkard staggering to the bar and the faint howl of the wind outside, rattling the Nevada night. Jack tossed his last coin into the pot, the metallic clink sounding like a death knell.