The prospector smilingly shook his head. "I ain’t needin’ no cheerin’ now," he asserted, again slapping the pocket. "I got a little stake that’ll let me stick it out till we get rain. I got too much faith in that claim to clear out an’ leave it; but now I got still more faith in my luck. It broke for me tonight an’ I’m bettin’ it’s th’ turnin’ point; an’ if a man ain’t willin’ to meet a turn of good luck at sunrise, with a smile, he shore don’t deserve it. At sunup I’ll be in that crick bed with a shovel in my hand, ready to go to work. I’ve been busted before; more’n once; but I don’t seem to get used to it, at all. Well, good luck, everybody, an’ good night," and he turned and strode briskly toward the door and disappeared into the darkness. Williams looked disappointed and cautiously pushed the substitute deck farther back in its little slot under the table. Looking around, he beckoned to the unselfish player and motioned for him to resume his seat. The lamb having departed, the regular friendly game for small stakes would now go on again. "You fellers heard what I said about sand, th’ very first night that Jones feller showed up," remarked Williams, chuckling. "I’m sayin’ it ag’in: he figgered Blascom was bluffin’, played that way until th’ stakes got high an’ then got scared out an’ quit. Quit cold without even feedin’ in a few more dollars to see th’ hand. Left th’ table in a rage just because he lost a hundred or two. I was watchin’ him as much as I could, an’ I could see he was gettin’ madder an’ madder, nervouser an’ nervouser all th’ time; an’ when a man gets like that he can’t play poker good enough to keep warm in h--l. He ain’t no poker player; an’ as soon as I can buffalo him into a good, stiff game, I’ll show you he ain’t!" He paused and looked around knowingly. "He didn’t win that roan. I just sorta loaned it to him. Might have to bait him ag’in, too; but before he leaves this town I’ll git it back, with all he’s got to-boot. There ain’t no call for nobody to start yappin’ around about what I’m sayin’," he warned. "I was a-wonderin’ about him winnin’ that hoss," said the unselfish player as he resumed his seat and drew up to the table. A broad grin spread itself across his face. "Prod him sharp, Gus: we’ll get him playin’ ag’in’ th’ gang, some night, an’ win him naked." The subject of their conversation was upstairs behind his closed door. He had taken off his coat and vest and was seated facing the washstand, from which he had removed the basin and pitcher. On the bench was a pile of 45’s, their bullets greaseless, and he was working assiduously at the slug of another cartridge, his thumb pressing this way and that, and from time to time he turned the shell for assaults on the other side. It was hard on the thumb, but no other way would do, for no other way that he could take advantage of would leave the soft lead entirely free from telltale marks.