The least among them physically was Luck Cullison, yet he was their recognized leader. There was some innate quality in this man with the gray, steel-chilled eyes that marked him as first in whatever company he chose to frequent. A good friend and a good foe, men thought seriously before they opposed him. He had made himself a power in the Southwest because he was the type that goes the limit when aroused. Yet about him, too, there was the manner of a large amiability, of the easy tolerance characteristic of the West. While Alec Flandrau shuffled and dealt, the players relaxed. Cigars were relit, drinks ordered. Conversation reverted to the ordinary topics that interested Cattleland. The price of cows, the good rains, the time of the fall roundup, were touched upon. The door opened to let in a newcomer, a slim, graceful man much younger than the others present, and one whose costume and manner brought additional color into the picture. Flandrau, Senior, continued to shuffle without turning his head. Cullison also had his back to the door, but the man hung his broad-rimmed gray hat on the rack--beside an exactly similar one that belonged to the owner of the Circle C--and moved leisurely forward till he was within range of his vision. "Going to prove up soon on that Del Oro claim of yours, Luck?" asked Flandrau. He was now dealing, his eyes on the cards, so that he missed the embarrassment in the faces of those about him. "On Thursday, the first day the law allows," Cullison answered quietly. Flandrau chuckled. "I reckon Cass Fendrick will be some sore." "I expect." Cullison's gaze met coolly the black, wrathful eyes of the man who had just come in. "Sort of put a crimp in his notions when you took up the cañon draw," Flandrau surmised. Something in the strained silence struck the dealer as unusual. He looked up, and showed a momentary confusion. "Didn't know you were there, Cass. Looks like I put my foot in it sure that time. I ce'tainly thought you were an absentee," he apologized. "Or you wouldn't have been talking about me," retorted Fendrick acidly. The words were flung at Flandrau, but plainly they were meant as a challenge for Cullison. A bearded man, the oldest in the party, cut in with good-natured reproof. "I shouldn't wonder, Cass, but your name is liable to be mentioned just like that of any other man." "Didn't know you were in this, Yesler," Fendrick drawled insolently. "Oh, well, I butted in," the other laughed easily. He pushed a stack of chips toward the center of the table. "The pot's open." Fendrick, refused a quarrel, glared at the impassive face of Cullison, and passed to the rear room for a drink. His impudence needed fortifying, for he knew that since he had embarked in the sheep business he was not welcome at this club, that in fact certain members had suggested his name be dropped from the books. Before he returned to the poker table the drink he had ordered became three.