“I mean outside,” said Shell. “Wind blowing, and yuh can hear the thunder. Yuh can’t hardly see through the dust right now.” Streak nodded, watching Conchita at the roulette wheel. She was blazing with jewels, but the wheel was stopped. Shell laughed. “Free whisky and no gamblers,” he said. “Serves him right.” Conchita was looking at them now, and Streak noticed that her eyes were almond-shaped and almost green. Mack Shell said, “Some day she’ll kill Brant. There’s a rattler down along the Mexican Border, with green eyes--like hers--and they don’t always rattle before they strike.” One of Mack Shell’s cowboys forced his way through the crowd and came in beside them. He said, “If you think Conchita is pretty, take a look at the gal in the Eureka. She’s got this’n beat four ways from the jack. And she’s runnin’ an honest wheel. I won forty dollars on one whirl.” The cowboy went on, circulating through the crowd, telling them about the Eureka. Streak smiled. Flack had probably hired several cowboys to pass out the good news, and the patrons were already drifting outside. “Let’s go over to the Eureka,” suggested Shell. “These men won’t leave free whisky,” said Streak. “The free whisky is over.” Shell laughed. “They’ve just put up the sign.” Slowly the crowd was drifting out of the place, some of them barely able to walk. Streak and Shell went outside. Lights were blotted out in the swirl of dust, and flashes of lightning were frequent now. Just as they found the entrance to the Eureka, a crash of thunder brought the first splatter of rain. The new saloon was filling fast as they came in. The polished furniture reflected the lamplight, a thing of beauty in that rough, wild country, but the patrons were not interested in that sort of beauty. Jim Flack, backed against the bar, was watching the gathering crowd, many of whom crowded around the roulette, where Clare Ames was running the layout. Mack Shell circulated among the crowd but Streak stayed near the end of the bar, out of the crowd. Men shoved through the open doorway, most of them drenched with rain. The building shuddered under the concussion of thunder. More men shoved in around the roulette, singing, cursing. It was a terrible place for a woman--even for the wrong kind. Flack came slowly over to Streak, tense, hard-eyed. “I don’t like it, Malone,” he said. “They tell me that Zero Brant dished out free whisky to this mob. They’re all drunk.” Streak nodded, his face grim. “Even free whisky wouldn’t hold ’em, Flack. They’re like a pack of wolves.” * * * * * More men surged in, possibly twenty or thirty huge foreigners, singing some sort of a chant. The room filled to suffocation, humming like a giant bee-hive, rank with the smell of unwashed humanity, liquor and strong tobacco smoke.