Jim Flack was over there next morning, before Streak awoke, and they talked things over. Flack said that he had talked with the superintendent of the hard-rock men on the railroad, and that the man was worried. Some of the more intelligent laborers realized that Zero Brant’s brace-games were keeping the men broke, and the bad liquor had made several of them unable to work at all. He said that any incident might start serious trouble. “It’s a bad situation,” agreed Streak. “But what can be done about it, Flack? You can’t make arrests on what people think. Zero Brant has a tough following, and as far as enforcing the law is concerned, who or what is the law? I could put a man in jail, but how could he ever be convicted? What jury could, or would, decide guilt or innocence? Flack, this is a case where Old Man Colt is the only judge and jury.” “I realize that, Malone,” nodded Flack. “I realize more than ever now that there will be trouble. Those men, last night, trying to force me to sign this place over to them, proved to me that they will stop at nothing.” Streak found Mack Shell on the street and told him what happened at the Eureka. The little outlaw grinned slowly. “So that’s why they let Flack go ahead with everythin’,” he remarked. “If you hadn’t been there, Flack would be dead now. Zero Brant is behind all this, Streak.” Streak nodded. “But we can’t prove it,” he said. The opening of the Eureka was not auspicious. Zero Brant was furnishing free whisky at the Silver Dollar and the house was packed with half-drunk humanity, mostly foreigners. A half-dozen bartenders were working at top speed but the games were not being patronized too well. A three-piece orchestra could hardly be heard above the roar of the crowd. * * * * * Brant was watching the crowd, a scowl on his face. The free whisky was keeping the crowd away from the games. Streak stood back against the wall, watching Brant. It was the first time Streak had ever seen Zero Brant without a hat, and he noticed that Brant’s forehead was criss-crossed with scars which were not too visible under a low-pulled hat-brim. Chap-clad cowboys, wild as hawks, rubbed elbows with perspiring, muck-stained laborers, who gulped free whisky and roared songs in strange tongues. Here and there in the crowd were men in buckskin, bearded, long-haired, buffalo-hunters and trappers. The buffalo hunters furnished meat for the railroad crews. At one end of the room El Chuchilla, the Knife, presided over a Three-Card-Monte game. This layout was not popular with the rank and file of patrons, but it placed the knife-throwing halfbreed in a good position to overlook the room, and flash signals to Zero Brant. Mack Shell worked his way through the crowd and came in beside Streak. He said, “There’s a storm comin’, Streak.” Streak nodded. “It’s bound to.”