Wild Bill's hut presented an unusually animated appearance. The customary oil-lamp was receiving the support of two vilely smelling yellow candles. The additional light thus obtained was hardly in proportion to the offensiveness of the added aroma. Still, the remoter corners of the place were further lit up, and the rough faces of the four occupants of the room were thrown into stronger relief. But the animation of the scene was rather a matter of visual illusion than actuality. For Wild Bill, in his right of proprietorship, was lounging on his blanketed bunk, while Toby's inanimate form robbed him of the extreme foot of it. Sunny Oak was hugging to himself what comfort there was to be obtained from the broken chair, which usually supported Bill's wash bucket, set well within elbow-reach of the table on which the illuminations had been placed. Sandy Joyce with unusual humility--possibly the result of his encounter with Birdie--was crouching on an upturned cracker box. There was a wonderful intentness, expectancy in every eye except Bill's. In Toby's there was triumphal anticipation, in Sandy's a conscious assurance. Bill had just come in from preparing his horses for their night journey, and, with an hour and more to spare, and the prospect of a long night before him, was anxious to take things as easy as possible. Reaching his arms above his head he pushed his hands behind it for support, and opened the proceedings. "You fellers been busy?" he inquired. And promptly every mouth opened to give proud assurance. But the gambler checked the impulse with grating sarcasm.