On such a morning, early in November, daylight broadened upon a characteristic scene. Only one table was in use, and around it sat four men. One by one the other players had cashed out and left the game. One of them was snoring in a corner, his head resting upon the sawdust. Another leaned heavily upon the bar, a half-drained glass before him. Even the four at the table were not as upon the night before. The hands which held the greasy cards and toyed with the stacks of chips were steady, but the heads controlling them wavered uncertainly; and the hawk eyes were bloodshot. A man with a full beard, roughly trimmed into the travesty of a Vandyke, was dealing. He tossed out the cards, carefully inclining their faces downward, and returned the remainder of the pack softly to the table. "Pass, damn it!" growled the man at the left. "Pass," came from the next man. "Pass," echoed the last of the quartette. Five blue chips dropped in a row upon the cloth. "I open it." The dealer took up the pack lovingly. "Cards?" The man at the left, tall, gaunt, ill-kempt, flicked the pasteboards in his hand to the floor and ground them beneath his heavy boots. "Give me five." The point of the Vandyke beard was aimed straight past the speaker. "Cards?" repeated the dealer. "Five! Can't you hear?" The man braced against the bar looked around with interest. In the mask of Mick Kennedy the single eye closed almost imperceptibly. Slowly the face of the dealer turned. "I can hear you pretty well when you cash into the game. You already owe me forty blues, Blair." The long figure stiffened, the face went pale. "You--mean--you--" the tongue was very thick. "You cut me out?" For a moment there was silence; then once more the beard pointed to the player next beyond. "Cards?" for the third time. Five chips ranged in a row beside their predecessors. "Three." A hand, almost the hand of a gentleman, went instinctively to the gaunt throat of the ignored gambler and jerked at the close flannel shirt; then without a word the owner got unsteadily to his feet and followed an irregular trail toward the interested spectator at the bar. "Have a drink with me, pard," said the gambler, as he regarded the immovable Mick. "Two whiskeys, there!" Kennedy did not stir, and for five seconds Blair blinked his dulled eyes in wordless surprise; then his fist came down upon the cottonwood board with a mighty crash. "Wake up there, Mick!" he roared. "I'm speaking to you! A couple of 'ryes' for the gentleman here and myself." Another pause, momentary but effective. "I heard you." The barkeeper spoke quietly but without the slightest change of expression, even of the eye. "I heard you, but I'm not dealing out drinks to deadbeats. Pay up, and I'll be glad to serve you." Swift as thought Blair's hand went to his hip, and the rattle of poker-chips sympathetically ceased. A second, and a big revolver was trained fair at the dispenser of liquors.