At the further end of the room was a small platform, on which sat a fiddler and a man with an accordeon. Nearly in the center of the room a crowd of men were packed around a card-table, over which hung a big, oil lamp, with huge circular shade. Over the bar was another, smaller lamp. The room was foggy with smoke and there seemed to be no ventilation. The kegs of liquor seemed to be the center of interest just now; so Bud moved over toward the crowd at the card-table, taking pains to conceal his face. Bud recognized several of the men around the table. There was Culp, a horse-thief from the Sweetgrass range; "Goat" Marlin, who got his nickname from his method of fighting; "Bull" Cook, who had served two years in the penitentiary for cattle rustling. [Illustration] "A sweet aggregation," reflected Bud, and hoped that none of these men might recognize him. Cook was very drunk and seemed anxious to get into the game, but the seats were all filled. He leaned heavily on another man and made drunken remarks about the players. Bud moved in closer to him. Cook's belt and holster had shifted around until the gun was hanging almost directly behind him, and by leaning in close and grasping the bottom of the holster, Bud was able to remove the gun without anyone seeing him. Cook straightened up, still arguing, but did not notice the absence of weight on his belt. He yipped joyfully and staggered toward the bar. Bud concealed the gun in his mackinaw pocket and grinned softly. The music started again and one of the cowboys essayed a drunken jig. Suddenly a bell tinkled and the music stopped. The cowboy continued his dance until someone grabbed him and forced him to stop. The room was as quiet as a tomb. After a pause of about fifteen seconds the bell tinkled again and the tension was relaxed. "A signal from upstairs," observed Bud. "Now, what is upstairs?" A man beside him was talking. "Monk she's scare h'all de time. Ho, ho, ho! H'every time somet'ing move--Monk she's ring de bell." Another man laughed harshly, as he said, "I reckon we don't need to worry about them red-bellies. There's only two of 'em left in Eagle's Nest, and one of them is the inspector." One of the men in the game looked up at them. "The killin' of that policeman and Indian in the street was a damn fool thing to do," he declared. "You can buck the Mounties just so long, but they'll git yuh in the end." "W'at you tink?" grunted the Frenchman. "Yo' t'ink de boss want Monk to go to de jail?" "He might at least 'a' moved the bodies. Yuh can't bluff the Mounties thataway. Killin' 'em only makes the rest that much worse. I don't like it." "I'm t'ink de boss know what she want."