One of the doors swung open quietly. Silence dropped once more, with the speed of tropical night, upon the blare of the place. The gambler's ghost stood there silhouetted against the light from a log fire outside. There were pink streaks down his dirty face, washed by tears, and his young shoulders drooped woefully. The dog came forward and licked his twitching fingers. “Allie is dead,” he whispered. “Curly, I should like to apply for the position of dealer over at your place, which yesterday was my place,” said Faro Sam, next day at noon, meeting Curly on the street. “Sure, you can have it, Sam. Too bad it's the custom for the house to go, too, when somebody breaks the bank. I've turned it over to George Spellman, with a thousand to start with. He and I come from the same place back in the States. Great friends we were, till we both got to sparkin' the same girl. When she took me, George, he got pretty ornery, but I guess he's all over it by this time. I'm goin' home to marry her, now. “I've just been around to the tents seein' about little Allie's funeral, an' he'll keep on the girls, too. I'm pullin' my freight for Hangtown (Placerville). This town's a little too small for a fellow of my means.” Faro Sam looked after him with a cynical light in his narrow eyes. “The pot bubbles loudest when the water's nearest the bottom,” he muttered, and turned to pick a fastidious way through the mud. Life that night in the gambling hell went on much as usual. Teddy Karns “poured the rye,” and Faro Sam “slipped the cards,” whilst Babe worried over Bouncing Bet's intoxicated condition. “It's Allie, you know,” Babe confided to Red Shirt Pete at midnight. “She took it awful hard, and Spellman, the new boss, wouldn't let 'er off tonight. I bin tellin' 'er Allie's better off, but she won't listen to nobody. She's just bin pourin' 'em down all evenin'. What's that?” at a loud banging on the doors. Some one opened them and Curly rode into the place on the handsome horse he had bought that morning. “Well, boys, I'm cleaned! Tried to copper the jack in Hangtown and the whole $50,000 went. George, I'll be askin' for this place back, I guess.” “This place belongs to me, Curly Gillmore.” “Who says so?” “This old lady says so,” covering him with his pistol. Curly laughed, not too musically. “Well, boys, what am I bid for this horse? I need a grubstake.” “Play you for him,” said Faro Sam, laconically. “Done,” said Curly. A moment later he laughed once more and swung down off the Spanish thoroughbred. “He's yours. Well, good-night, boys.” No one answered. He had, like Hadji the beggar, become in twenty-four hours again a drifter. Babe sneaked out after him. “Here, Curly,” she slipped her hand into her bosom and held out the octagonal slug. “When Bet an' I reached Allie last night she was holdin' it in her little dead hand, an' there was such a smile on her face! You gave her that happy smile. God bless you for it! Now, you take this--”