"No, but Lon, I'm lucky--you know that yourself--I can go East and sell the old mine." "Oh, you're lucky, are you?" interrupted L. W. "Well, how come then that you're standing here, broke? But here, I've got business, I'll give you ten dollars--and remember, it's the last that you get!" He drew out a bill, but Rimrock stood looking at him with a slow and contemptuous smile. "Yes, you doggoned old screw," he answered ungraciously, "what good will ten dollars do?" "You can get just as drunk on that," replied L. W. pointedly, "as you could on a hundred thousand!" A change came over Rimrock's face, the swift mirroring of some great idea, and he reached out and grabbed the money. "Where you going?" demanded L. W. as he started across the street. "None of your business," answered Rimrock curtly, but he headed straight for the Mint. CHAPTER II WHEN RICHES FLY The Mint was Gunsight's only gambling house. It had a bar, of course, and a Mexican string band that played from eight o'clock on; besides a roulette wheel, a crap table, two faro layouts, and monte for the Mexicans. But the afternoon was dull and the faro dealer was idly shuffling a double stack of chips when Rimrock brushed in through the door. Half an hour afterwards the place was crowded and all the games were running big. Such is the force of example--especially when you win. Rimrock threw his bill on the table, bought a stack of white chips, placed it on the queen and told the dealer to turn 'em. The queen won and Rimrock took his chips and played as the spirit moved. He won more, for the house was unlucky from the start, and soon others began to ride his bets. If he bet on the seven, eager hands reached over his shoulder and placed more chips on the seven. Petty winners drifted off to try their luck at monte, the sports took a flier at roulette; and as the gambling spirit, so subtly fed, began to rise to a fever, Rimrock Jones, the cause of all this heat, bet more and more--and still won. It was at the height of the excitement when, with half of the checks in the rack in front of him, Rimrock was losing and winning by turns, that the bull-like rumble of L. W. Lockhart came drifting in to him above the clamor of the crowd. "Why don't you quit, you fool?" the deep voice demanded. "Cash in and quit--you've got your stake!" Rimrock made a gesture of absent-minded impatience and watched the slow turn of the cards. Not even the dealer or the hawk-eyed lookout was more intently absorbed in the game. He knew every card that had been played and he bet where the odds were best. Every so often a long, yellow hand reached past him and laid a bet by his stake. It was the hand of a Chinaman, those most passionate of faro players, and at such times, seeing it follow his luck, the face of Rimrock lightened up with the semblance of a smile. He called the last turn and they paused for the drinks, while the dealer mopped his brow.