The Stranger’s Hand

My mother used to tell me a tale handed down from her father, and his father before him. It all took place many, many moons ago, when men gathered in old roadside inns, their wagons resting under a moonlit sky and horses dozing in the yard.

Two Traveller cousins, both named Price, stopped at a pub on the outskirts of Perthshire after a long day selling their wares. The night outside was pitch black, but the fire inside

was bright and welcoming. Before long, the Prices were sitting with a few locals, playing cards as the evening wore on.

As the hours passed, the crowd thinned until only the two Prices remained at the table. Just as they were about to finish the game, the door opened slowly and quietly: in stepped a tall man dressed in a long black coat, shining boots, and a hat that shadowed his eyes.

Without saying much, he pulled up a chair. “Mind if I join?” he asked.

The cousins exchanged glances. One chuckled nervously: “sure, if you’ve got a shilling to lose.”

The stranger smiled, flashing teeth that were far too white for a man of the road: “I never lose,” he responded.

And so, they played. Hand after hand - the stranger took every pot. No matter what cards he held, his luck seemed unbreakable - or maybe it was something else entirely? The firelight flickered on his face, and the Prices noticed his eyes were dark and endless, as if they held no light at all.

Finally, Tom Price, the older cousin, dropped his cards: “That’s enough for me,” he said.

But Joe, the younger, was hooked. He kept betting, losing every last coin he had. Desperate, he slammed his final silver ring on the table: “winner takes everything,” he declared.

The stranger’s eyes glittered as he nodded. He laid out his cards - four black kings.

Joe went pale. That’s when he noticed the stranger’s boots had slipped down. Where feet should have been, there were none, instead cloven hooves glinted in the glow of the fire.

Tom grabbed Joe, yelling for the landlord, but when they looked again, the stranger had vanished. The chair was empty, the door was closed, and not a trace remained.

All that was left were the four black kings on the table and the silver ring, glowing red-hot in their midst.

They say the Prices ran from the pub and never played cards again. Even now, if you walk that road after midnight, some claim to spot a tall man in a black coat, waiting by the hedges for someone to deal him in.

Beware who sits at your card table, for any man may wear the ring of slyness, masking his true intentions behind a charming smile and shadowed eyes. When the stakes are high and the firelight is low, remember that the Devil’s games are never fair - and his luck never runs dry. Before you play, glance beneath the table; not every guest comes with honest feet, and not every hand is meant for mortal victory. The sly Devil waits for those who believe they can win, but with him, you will always lose more than you can afford.

Let this be your warning: trust no stranger at your table, for the cleverest rings are worn by the most cunning hands.

Retold with respect by

Tommy Bennett