In the lobby of the Windsor Hotel, as Neighbor Jones came down the stairs, Mr. Octaviano Baca chatted with a little knot of guests. A well-set-up man, tall and strong, with a dark, intelligent face marred and pitted by smallpox but still pleasing, he carried his two score years with the ease of twenty. A gay man, a friendly man, his manner was suave and easy; his dress, place considered, rigorously correct--frock coat, top hat, stick, gloves and gun. The gun was covered, not concealed, by the coat; a chivalrous concession to the law, of which he was so much an ornament. Baca was born to riches, and born to the leadership of the clans. He had brains in his own right; but it was his entire and often proved willingness to waive any advantage and to discuss any moot point with that gun which had won him admiration from the many and forgiveness from the few. Mr. Jones sank into a quiet chair and read the newspapers. When Mr. Baca, after several false starts, left his friends and went out on the street, Mr. Jones rose and followed him. Mr. Baca turned in at Beck’s place, Jones behind him. Gambling was completely eliminated in Saragossa, but the saloon was in high favor legally; so Beck and Scanlon kept a saloon openly on the ground floor. The poker rooms and the crap, monte, roulette and faro layouts were upstairs. Their existence was a profound secret. No stranger could find the gambling den in Saragossa without asking somebody--any one would do; unless, indeed, he heard, as he passed, the whir of the ivory ball or the clicking of chips. Baca, with a nod and a smile for the bar, passed on to join a laughing crowd behind, where two native boys were enjoying a bout with the gloves. Neighbor leaned on the bar. The partners were ill matched. Beck was tall, portly and, except for a conscientious, professional smile, of a severe countenance, blond, florid and flaxen. Scanlon was a slender wisp of a blue-eyed Irishman, dried up, wizened and silent. “Well, boys,” said Neighbor jovially, “I got to go back to the hills and grow a new fleece. Till then, you’ve lost my game. Sorry.” Beck frowned. “I hate to see a good fellow go bust. If boys like you had plenty of money I wouldn’t never have to work. Well, hurry on back! And come straight here the first night, before you waste any on clothes and saddles and stuff.” He lowered his voice for Neighbor’s ears. “Say, if you’re short, you know--hotel bills, and so on--come round.” He jerked a confidential thumb at the house safe. “Not so bad as that!” laughed Neighbor. “But you want to sharpen your shears up. They pulled a little this time.” He passed on to the circle round the boxers.