“It was three-four weeks ago, one night after you’d staked me,” Garth explained. “I’d gone into Bull’s place, aimin’ to buck the tiger one more li’l’ whirl to see if I couldn’t git some o’ my good money back ag’in, and I happen’ to look over my shoulder and see Phil a-follerin’ me. Reckoned he was aimin’ to knock me down and drag me out for a cussed fool, so I dodged him in the crowd and watched to see what he’d do. He was lookin’ for me, all right; I could see that; but when he come to the faro layout, he stopped dead, like he’d been shot--jus’ stood there a-starin’ at that dealer with his eyes a-buggin’ out.” “And then?” Bromley prompted, hurriedly, because the conductor was now coming down the platform, clearance order in hand. “Then he kind-a groped his way ’round the table and touched old Fish-eye on the shoulder. Fish-eye, he looks up and says somethin’, quiet-like, and then calls in his mate to take the deal box, and goes off up-stairs with Phil. That’s all I seen, but it got me guessin’.” The train conductor had shouted his “All aboard!” and the wheels were beginning to roll. Garth swung up to the step, and there was time only for a hasty, “So long! See you later!” and the big miner was gone. Bromley walked up-town, soberly thoughtful; and that evening, after dinner, drifted into the Bull “palace” and slipped into the ring of onlookers at the faro game. One appraisive look at the hard-faced man running the cards from the dealer’s box was all that was needed, and the play-boy saw to whom Philip owed his cool gray eyes, thin-lipped mouth, and even the curious brow cow-lick in his hair. An hour later Bromley had sought and found a redheaded young fellow whose job as a railroad passenger agent brought him in contact with all sorts and conditions of men--and women--in the strenuous mother of mining-camps. “You are a walking directory of this wild town, Reddick,” the play-boy began, when he had trailed the breezy young railroad man to his office in the Union Depot. “Do you happen to know any of the regulars in Clem Bull’s place?” Reddick grinned. “All of ’em, I guess; it’s my business to know people. Which one of Bull’s outfit are you gunning for?” “A sober, wooden-faced man, clean shaven, middle-aged, with his hair turning gray, and with eyes as cold as a fish’s. He is one of the faro dealers.” “‘Deadwood’ Kent,” said Reddick, without a moment’s hesitation. “Came from the Black Hills and landed in Leadville with the first rush.” “What sort?” Bromley queried. “As tough as they make ’em. They say he had his own private graveyard in the Hills, though that may be just talk. But he did get his man in Leadville--which may be the reason why he’s down here and not up there. Better go loaded for bear if you’ve got a quarrel with him.” “Nothing like it; nothing but a bit of idle curiosity. I thought he looked like a hard one, and I fancied you’d know.”