“Give us a drink,” demanded Ace-In-The-Hole of the bartender, “A drink, and a deck of cards.” The men drank, and as Old Man Gordon set down his glass, he regarded the others with a frown. He had imbibed rather freely during the afternoon and early evening, and the strong liquor had loosened his tongue: “Ye’ll not get me to risk gude gold on the flip of a card!” he exclaimed, with asperity. “Ye’re onregenerate sons of Belial! Ye waste ye’re substance wi’ riotous livin’ an’ harlots, agin the command of the Gude Book, an’ I’ll have none of it!” “Give it to him, Gordon!” laughed Camillo Bill. “Tell him where to head in!” cried Bettles. “He’s a sinful man, ain’t he, Gordon?” encouraged Moosehide Charlie, “I bet he ain’t got no soul left to speak of!” “Who be ye, to be passin’ judgment on a man’s soul?” cried Gordon, turning on the speaker, to the huge delight of the others. “Ye’re all tarred wi’ the same brush, as the Gude Book says. One of ye is no better than the others, if as gude! Ye’re empty sepulchres full o’ dead men’s bones! Ye’re rushin’ hell-bent fer destruction! Ye’re a generation of vipers!” Ace-In-The-Hole turned gravely to the bartender: “Don’t give him any more to drink,” he warned, “He’s seein’ snakes!” “An’ who could see aught else, lookin’ at the likes of ye?” retorted the old man, “Snakes an’ serpents ye are, layin’ in wait to sting the unwary wi’ the turn of a card!” “You’re a gambler yourself,” grinned MacShane, “Or you wouldn’t be here. You’re bettin’ your life against the gold you expect to take out of the gravel.” “Wise ye are, Burr MacShane, in the ways of the trail, an’ a man ’tis gude to know. But ye’re philosophy is but the babble of a child. ’Tis no gamble--the gold ye take out of the gravel. ’Tis fairly earnt by the sweat of the brow, an’ by the work of the brain. Ye’re poker is a gamble, pure an’ simple. The pot ye rake in is not come by by the sweat of ye’re brow, nor is it earnt by the work of ye’re brain. ’Tis luckily won by the foolish turn of a card.” “I’ve dealt till I sweat,” retorted MacShane, “An’ I’ve sure worked my brains overtime tryin’ to dope out whether to call, or raise, or throw ’em away.” “Blither, an’ blather!” cried the old man, thoroughly roused, now, to his subject. “Give us a drink, barkeep, till I blast through the bed rock that these skulls are made of, an’ see if there’s a bit of a brain below!” He turned again to MacShane, “Poker is a gamblin’ game, d’ye hear!” “I’ve had an inklin’ that such was the case,” grinned MacShane. “Ye’ve admitted it, then? There’s hope for ye, which is more than I thought. Bein’ a gamblin’ game, it’s riotous livin’ for to play it, as the Gude Book states plain. It’s a gamblin’ game because ye’ve got to have the cards to win. The cards is got in the luck of the deal, an’ no amount of work ye can do, or thinkin’ ye can do will change the fall of the cards.”