"Yo’re dead right," spoke up a one-eyed tramp who honored himself with the title of prospector. "As for me, I never _did_ think much of any man as guzzles it secret. Show me th’ man that swizzles in public, an _I’ll_ show you a man as can be trusted. Two whole gallons of it! A whole, bloomin’ jugful, at onct! Where’d he git all that money? I’m askin’ you, _where’d_ he git it? On Buffaler Crick?" His voice rose and cracked with avarice and suspicion. "Naw!" growled the man in the far corner, slumping back against his chair. "He won it from that Tex Jones feller--th’ new marshal--two hundred or more-- playin’ poker. Th’ same Tex Jones as shot Bud Haines. There ain’t more’n day wages on Buffaler Crick. I know, ’cause I been lookin’ around out there, quiet-like." He stiffened suddenly and sat up, excitement transforming him. "Boys, this here marshal has got money--I saw his wad when he an’ Blascom was a-playin’." "Yo’re shore welcome to it," pessimistically rejoined the man nearest the bar, his vivid imagination picturing the amazing death of Bud Haines. "Yes, sir; yo’re welcome to _all_ of it. I don’t want none, a-tall!" The discoverer of the marshal’s roll regarded the objector with deep scorn. "That’s you!" he retorted. "Allus goin’ off half-cocked, an’ yowlin’ calamity! This here marshal likes poker, don’t he? An’ he can’t play it, can he? Didn’t Blascom clean him? He’s scared to bluff, or call one, no matter how brave he is with a gun. Who’s got any dust? Dig down deep, an’ we’ll pool it, lettin’ Hank an’ Sinful do th’ playin’ for us. Where’s Hennery?" he demanded of the bartender. Baldy mopped the bar and glanced at the ceiling. "Upstairs, sleepin’ off a stem-winder. He got drinkin’ to th’ mem’ry of th’ dead deceased last night--an’ his mem’ry is long an’ steady. He’s too senti-mental, Hennery is, for a man as can’t handle his likker good. If you fellers are goin’ after th’ marshal’s pile, I’m recommendin’ stud-hoss. He’s nat’rally scared of poker, an’ stud’s so fast he won’t have no time to start worryin’. Draw will give him too much time to think. Better try stud-hoss," he reiterated, unwittingly naming the form of poker at which the marshal excelled. "Stud-hoss she is, then," agreed Sinful, licking his lips. "I like stud-hoss. We’ll bait him tonight; an’ we’ll all have jugs of our own by mornin’, since Buffaler Crick’s settin’ th’ style." The meeting forthwith went into executive session, depleted gold sacks slowly appearing. Outside, Blascom offered the jug to his companion, who pushed it away, and shook his head in sudden panic. "Don’t want to smell like no saloon where I’m goin’," he hastily explained. "Now that yo’re safe from snakes I’ll be driftin’ to my cayuse." "All right, Watkins; I’ll treat next time," and the miner, jug in hand, strode toward the station as Tommy mounted and wheeled to ride in the direction of the Saunders’ home.