At last they reached Fort Laramie, called by some of the pioneers and trappers Fort John. It was a quadrangular building, built of rough bricks. The walls had watch towers and were defended by several brass cannon. It was located where the Laramie River flowed into the Platte, six hundred and seventy-two miles from Independence. "We've done some traveling since we started," said Mark, when he heard the distance mentioned. "That leaves us a little over fifteen hundred miles still to cover," said Si. "Boys, we are getting there." "The worst of it is," put in Bob, "nearly all of the rest of the journey is uphill--that is, till we get over the top of the Rockies. It is going to be a long, hard pull, if I know anything about it." A great many emigrants were encamped around Fort Laramie, taking a brief rest before setting out on the next stage of their arduous journey. Trappers, hunters, and traders were numerous, and not a few gambling places were in full blast. Some of these resorts were open day and night, and not a few of the men who went in to play lost all they possessed. The very night the boys arrived there was some excitement over a young man who had just committed suicide. "He went an' gambled away his last dollar and then gambled away his hoss an' his hull outfit," explained one of the men to Mark. "That discouraged him, and he threw himself into the river with a bag of sand tied to his neck." "Horrible!" murmured the boy, and shuddered. "The gambling fever is fearful when it gets into your veins," went on the man. "I had it once and I know." The gaming tables had a great fascination for Maybe Dixon, and soon he was putting up what little money he possessed, much to the boys' distress, for they thought a good deal of the man "from everywhere." "Better give it up," said Bob to Dixon. "You are bound to lose." "Not if they play fair," answered Maybe Dixon. "But maybe they don't give a feller a square deal. There's one chap I don't trust much--a feller from the south named Sag Ruff. He looks like a sharper. But he has got some o' my money already, an' I am bound to win it back, or my name ain't Dixon." "Better leave him alone," said Mark. "If he is a swindler he will surely take all he can from you." "I'll stake against him once more," said Dixon, determinedly. Curious to see what might happen to Maybe Dixon, Mark watched his chance that evening and followed the man to the gambling shanty, which was located on the outskirts of the temporary settlement. The gambling table was a packing box with several smooth boards nailed to the top, and rude benches took the place of chairs. At one end of the table rested a tallow candle, and on the wall swung a smoking oil lamp. A dozen men were present, some clean-cut and honest-looking and the others of all degrees of roughness. Sag Ruff was a burly fellow of forty, with a shock of red hair and a red beard. He had a harsh voice, and when he spoke it was frequently with biting sarcasm.