"That’s Apache Kid, and he’s in this here story of the Lost Cabin. Yap, that’s what they call him, though he ain’t the real original, of course. The real original was hanged down in Lincoln County, New Mexico, about twenty-five year back. Hanged at the age of twenty-one he was, and had killed twenty-one men, which is an interesting fact to consider. That’s the way with names. I know a fellow they call Texas Jack yet, but the real original died long ago. I mind the original. Omohundro was his correct name; as quiet a man as you want to see, Jack B. Omohundro, with eyes the colour of a knife-blade. But I ’m driftin’ away. What you want to get posted up on is the Lost Cabin Mine." He jerked his chair closer to me, tapped me on the knee, and cleared his throat; but I seemed fated not to hear the truth of that mystery yet, for Mrs. Laughlin stood again on the verandah. "Abraham," she said in an aggrieved tone, "there ain’t nobody in the bar." Up jumped Abraham, his whole bearing, from his bowed head to his bent knees, apologetic. "I was just tellin’ this gentleman a story," he explained. "I ’m astonished at you then," she said. "An old man like you a-telling your stories to a young lad like that! You ’d be doin’ better slippin’ into the bar and takin’ a smell at that there barkeep’s breath." Mr. Laughlin turned to me. "Come into the bar, sir; come into the bar. We ’ve got a new barkeep and the mistress suspects him o’ takin’ some more than even a barkeep is expected to take. I hev to take a look to him once in a while." Mrs. Laughlin disappeared into her own sanctum, satisfied; while the "pro-prietor" and I went into the bar-room. The "barkeep" was polishing up his glasses. In one corner sat a grimy, bearded man in the prime of life but with a dazed and lonely eye. He always sat in that particular corner, as by ancient right, morning, noon, and evening, playing an eternal solitary game of cards, the whole deck of cards spread before him on a table. He moved them about, changing their positions, lifting here and replacing there, but, though I had watched him several times, I could never discover the system of his lonely game. "Who is that man?" I quietly inquired. "He is always playing there, always alone, never speaking to a soul."