"Ahhr!" snarled Bray, who was in villainous humor, as he hurled himself into his place. "Y'needn't make no cracks--I'm on the square--and I'll take no lip from anybody!" "Well, shuffle 'em up then," answered Rimrock quietly, "and when I feel like it I'll make my bet." It was the middle of the night, as Bray's days were divided, and even yet he was hardly awake; but he shuffled the cards until Rimrock was satisfied and then locked them into the box. The case-keeper sat opposite, to keep track of the cards, and a look-out on the stand at one end, and while a mob of surging onlookers fought at their backs they watched the slow turning of the cards. "Why don't you bet?" snapped Bray; but Rimrock jerked his head and beckoned him to go on. "Yes, and lose half on splits," he answered grimly, "I'll bet when it comes the last turn." The deal went on till only three cards remained in the bottom of the box. By the record of the case-keeper they were the deuce and the jack--the top card, already shown, did not count. "The jack," said Rimrock and piled up his money on the enameled card on the board. "You lose," rasped out Bray without waiting for the turn and then drew off the upper card. The jack lay, a loser, in the box below and as he shoved it slowly out the deuce appeared underneath. "How'd you know?" flashed back Rimrock as Bray reached for his money, but the gambler laughed in his face. "I outlucked you, you yap," he answered harshly. "That dealer--he wasn't worth hell room!" "Gimme a fiver to eat on!" demanded Rimrock as Bray banked the money, but he flipped him fifty cents. It was the customary stake, the sop thrown by the gambler to the man who has lost his last cent, and Bray sloughed it without losing his count. "Go on, now," he said, still keeping to the formula, "go back and polish a drill!" It was the form of dismissal for the hardrock miners whose earnings he was wont to take, but Rimrock was not particular. "All right, Ike," he said and as he drifted out the door his prosperity friends disappeared. Only L. W. remained, a scornful twist to his lips, and the sight of him left Rimrock sick. "Yes, rub it in!" he said defiantly and L. W., too, walked away. In his sober moments--when he was out on the desert or slugging away underground--Rimrock Jones was neither childish nor a fool. He was a serious man, with great hopes before him; and a past, not ignoble, behind. But after months of solitude, of hard, yegging work and hopes deferred, the town set his nerves all a-tingle--even Gunsight, a mere dot on the map--and he was drunk before he took his first drink. Drunk with mischief and spontaneous laughter, drunk with good stories untold, new ideas, great thoughts, high ambitions. But now he had had his fling.