Such were the surface indications of the vein of reluctance; but deeper down there was another reason for the postponement. Not at any time since his arrival had David forgotten that Judith Fallon was most probably still living in Powder Can. If he should chance to meet her--which was not at all unlikely--the entire question of his responsibilities--a question which the lapse of time, and the growing hope that he might one day win the love of Virginia Grillage, had pushed into the background--would be reopened. As a result of his inquiries he soon found that there would be little use in making an appeal to the law. As Plegg had pointed out, the Powder Gap region was far enough distant from civilization to be a law unto itself. But there was the hope that he might be able to make such representations to the railroad people, who were the lessors of the land upon which the town was built, as might induce them to intervene on the side of law and order. Being thus brought face to face with the thorny duty, he enlisted Plegg; and after the mess-tent supper they crossed the basin together to make such a survey of the conditions as would enable them to present the demoralizing facts in their reality to the railroad company. With one of the fortnightly pay-days less than thirty-six hours in the past there was ample evidence of the malignance of the social and industrial ulcer. The wide-open resorts were packed with throngs of the Grillage workmen, and the harvesting of the hard-earned dollars was in full swing. “We’ll see it all while we’re about it,” said David; and with Plegg at his elbow he pushed his way through one of the crowded bar-rooms to a den at the rear where a faro-game was running, with the circle of sitters backed by eager gamblers who reached over the shoulders of the chair circle to place their bets. Outside in the bar there was noise enough, but here the strained silence was broken only by the clicking of the counters, the heavy breathing of the men, and the silken whisper of the cards as the dealer ran them from his box. David let his gaze sweep the table circle and come to rest upon the forbidding features of the man who was running the cards; a swarthy, heavy-faced giant with Indian-like hair, drooping mustaches that only half veiled a mouth of utter ruthlessness, and eyes that were at the moment as dead as the pallor showing beneath the Mexican-darkness of his skin. “‘Black Jack’ Dargin,” Plegg whispered in Vallory’s ear. “He owns and runs this place, and does his own dealing, but he has another sort of dive a little farther up the street.” David Vallory’s jaw was set when they had worked their way out to the open air. “It isn’t even a square game!” he gritted. “What I don’t know about faro would fill a book, but any sober man with eyes in his head could see that that scoundrel was running a stacked deck! Who is this Dargin?”