“You kin guess agin, then, Dalzene,” answered Wilcox, “An’ don’t make that mistake--about us bein’ in the same business. I do mine legal, open an’ above board with white men. I don’t sneak through the brush tradin’ rot-gut to Injuns fer ten times what it’s worth, an’ takin’ the fur they need fer grub in pay fer it.” “I need a couple of drinks an’ I’d buy ’em if I had more’n jest enough on me to pay Henshaw fer my tonight’s lodgin’.” “Don’t save it fer me,” snapped Henshaw. “I ain’t got no room. I’m full up.” “But, I got a room there, now. I’ve had it fer ten days. I paid you up this mornin’, but I didn’t give up the room!” “It’s give up all the same. A party from Noo Orleens reserved it. I’m expectin’ him on the first train.” With an oath Dalzene drew a silver dollar from his pocket and slammed it onto the bar: “Give me a couple of drinks!” he growled. Wilcox looked him squarely in the eye: “Yer money ain’t no better here, Dalzene, than what yer credit is. They’s party from Panama bought up all my stock. He’d ort to be waftin’ in most any time, now.” In the room not a man laughed. For the space of seconds Dalzene stood staring straight in front of him. Then, slowly his eyes traveled over the faces of the men that crowded the room, but not one friendly glance met his. Nor did a single unfriendly one. Yet every eye in the room was upon him--hard, level stares that bored through, and beyond him, yet took no note of him. It was unnatural. Why didn’t someone laugh at the preposterous excuses of Henshaw and Wilcox? It was suddenly as if he, Dalzene, had ceased to exist. He was alone. From the life of the camp--from the men of the camp, he was a thing apart. His credit was no good. Even his money was no good. A great wave of self-pity swept over him. His shoulders drooped, and clutching his dollar tightly in his hand he turned and slunk from the room.