Bolts were promptly withdrawn and the door thrown open by a slender, fair-haired fellow, whose features looked as if they had been roughed out and not finished. He grinned amiably at the newcomer and greeted him with: “Hello, Jed.” “Hello, Tommie,” returned Briscoe, carelessly, and let his glance pass to the three men seated at the table with cards and poker chips in front of them, The man facing Briscoe was a big, heavy-set, unmistakable ruffian with long, drooping, red mustache, and villainous, fishy eyes. It was observable that the trigger finger of his right hand was missing. Also, there was a nasty scar on his right cheek running from the bridge of the nose halfway to the ear. This gave surplusage to the sinister appearance he already had. To him Briscoe spoke first, attempting a geniality he did not feel. “How're they coming, Texas?” “You ain't heard me kicking any, have you?” the man made sullen answer. “Not out loud,” said Briscoe significantly, his eyes narrowing after a trick they had when he was most on his guard. “I reckon my remarks will be plumb audible when I've got any kick to register, seh.” “I hope not, Mr. Johnson. In this neck of woods a man is liable to get himself disliked if he shoots off his mouth too prevalent. Folks that don't like our ways can usually find a door open out of Lost Valley--if they don't wait too long!” “I'm some haidstrong. I reckon I'll stay.” He scowled at Jed with disfavor, meeting him eye to eye. But presently the rigor of his gaze relaxed. Me remembered that he was a fugitive from justice, and at the mercy of this man who had so far guessed his secret. Putting a temporary curb on his bilious jealousy, he sulkily added: “Leastways, if there's no objection, Mr. Briscoe. I ain't looking for trouble with anybody.” “A man who's looking for it usually finds it, Mr. Johnson. A man that ain't, lives longer and more peaceable.” At this point Jed pulled himself together and bottled his arrogance, remembering that he had come to make an alliance with this man. “But that's no way for friends to talk. I got a piece of news for you. We'll talk it over in the other room and not disturb these gentlemen.” One of the “gentlemen” grinned. He was a round-bodied, bullet-headed cowpuncher, with a face like burnt leather. He was in chaps, flannel shirt, and broad-brimmed hat. From a pocket in his chaps a revolver protruded. “That's right, Jed. Wrap it up proper. You'd hate to disturb us, wouldn't you?” “I'll not interrupt you from losing your money more than five minutes, Yorky,” answered Briscoe promptly. The third man at the table laughed suddenly. “Ay bane laik to know how yuh feel now, Yorky?” he taunted. “It ain't you that's taking my spondulix in, you big, overgrown Swede!” returned Yorky amiably. “It's the gent from Texas. How can a fellow buck against luck that fills from a pair to a full house on the draw?”