"And I'm from Missouri," said he. Joe Walker chuckled a little. "Yes; the old man's from there, too," said he, with the warmth of one relative claiming kinship with another from far-away parts; "from a place called Saint Joe. Did you ever hear of it?" "I've heard of it," the doctor admitted, smiling to himself over the ingenuous unfolding of the victim whom he had snatched from the sacrifice. "They don't only have to show you fellers from Missouri," pursued Walker; "but you show _them_! That's the old man's way, from the boot-heels up." They were walking away from the gambling-tent, taking the middle of the road, as was the custom in Comanche after dark, sinking instep deep in dust at every step. "What are you doing with all that money in a place like this?" the doctor questioned. "Well, it's this way," explained Walker with boyish confidence. "The old man's going to set me up in a sheep-ranch between here and Casper. We've got a ranch bargained for with six miles of river-front, he sent me over here with five thousand dollars to cinch the business before the feller changed his mind." "Why didn't you bring a draft?" the doctor wondered. "Some of these sheepmen wouldn't take government bonds. Nothing but plain cash goes with them." "Oh, I didn't think you had any particular use for even that, the way you're slinging it around!" said the doctor, with no attempt to hide the feeling he held for any such recklessness. "Looked that way," admitted Walker thoughtfully. "But I've got to meet that sheepman here at the bank in the morning, where he can have somebody that he's got confidence in feel of the money and tell him it's genuine, and I'll have to put up some kind of a stall to cover the money I lost. Guess I can get away with it, somehow. Cripes! I sweat needles every time I think of what'd 'a' happened to me if you hadn't showed us suckers that one-eyed feller's hand!" "Well, the important thing now, it seems to me, is to hang on to what's left till you meet that rancher." "Don't you worry!" rejoined Walker warmly. "I'm going to sit on the edge of that little old bunk all night with my six-shooter in one hand and that money in the other! And any time in future that you see me bettin' on any man's game, you send for the fool-killer, will you?" "Yes, if I happen to be around," promised the doctor. "I ought to know 'em; I was raised right here in Wyoming among 'em," said Walker. "I thought that feller was square, or maybe off a little, because he talked so much. He was the first talkin' gambler I ever met." "Talk is his trick," Slavens enlightened him. "That was old Hun Shanklin, the flat-game man. I've looked him up since I got here. He plays suckers, and nothing _but_ suckers. No gambler ever bets on Hun Shanklin's game. He talks to keep their eyes on his face while he switches the dice."