There used to be in great favor among the Mexicans, and the Americans, too, for that matter, a modification of roulette called “chusas,” which never failed to draw a cluster of earnest players, who would remain by the tables until the first suggestion of daylight. High above the squeak of Pan’s pipes or the plinkety-plink-plunk of the harps sounded the voice of the “banker”: “Make yer little bets, gents; make yer little bets; all’s set, the game’s made, ’n th’ ball’s a-rollin’.” When, for any reason, the “game” flagged in energy, there would be a tap upon the bell by the dealer’s side, and “drinks all round” be ordered at the expense of the house. It was a curious exhibit of one of the saddest passions of human nature, and a curious jumble of types which would never press against each other elsewhere. Over by the faro bank, in the corner, stood Bob Crandall, a faithful wooer of the fickle goddess Chance. He was one of the handsomest men in the Southwest, and really endowed with many fine qualities; he had drifted away from the restraints of home life years ago, and was then in Tucson making such a livelihood as he could pick up as a gambler, wasting brain and attainments which, if better applied, would have been a credit to himself and his country. There was one poor wretch who could always be seen about the tables; he never played, never talked to any one, and seemed to take no particular interest in anything or anybody. What his name was no one knew or cared; all treated him kindly, and anything he wished for was supplied by the charity or the generosity of the frequenters of the gaming-tables. He was a trifle “off,” but perfectly harmless; he had lost all the brain he ever had through fright in an Apache ambuscade, and had never recovered his right mind.