Sanc and I were fortunate enough to witness the wind-up of one of her most memorable celebrations. Leaving her hack at the curb, she walked into her victim’s saloon and ordered all hands to drink. When the drinks were disposed of and paid for, she put both hands on the inner edge of the bar and pulled it over on the floor. Out of the wreckage she gathered an armful of bottles. One of them was accurately hurled into the mirror, and the remainder at anybody in sight. The boss, bartender, and saloon bums disappeared out the back way and Mary stalked out the front. On the sidewalk she threw away her hat, tore up what money she had left, and crawled into her waiting hack. Inside she kicked all the glass out, lay down on the back seat, and, with her feet out through the broken window, was driven home in state while the town stood mute. We allowed her a couple of days to recuperate before calling. When we appeared she welcomed us as usual with an invitation to eat from the bottomless bean pot. Sanc threw her the small parcel of stones which she examined carefully with practiced eye, and a high-powered glass. Commercial white diamonds were sixty dollars a carat, wholesale, then, and when she offered us eighteen hundred dollars we took them, satisfied. We jumped to Denver, where Sanc got the dice-game concession in the “Chicken Coop,” a small gambling house. We had three thousand dollars between us. Two thousand went into the bankroll and we opened up bravely. “Soapy Smith,” gambler and bunko man, noted for his high plays and big winnings and losings, won our two thousand in three successive plays. Sanc wanted to continue with the balance of our money, but I refused and stubbornly held on to my last five hundred. We had to quit. Sanc was a hard loser and followed “Soapy” around town for a week trying to “elevate” him. He never got away from the bright lights, and Sanc gave up the notion of sticking him up. We located a big poker game in a soft spot and decided to “line up” the players. The biggest gamblers in town sat there nightly and there were thousands of dollars in sight. After many nights of careful checking, we were ready to go against it. Robbery has none of the complications of burglary. It is simple as one, two, three. You get it or you don’t. Sanc with a gun in his hand opened the door softly. I was behind him. The players, six of them, were in the midst of a “big play.” None looked up. At the opposite side of the table, facing us, scrutinizing his cards, sat Bat Masterson, the last of the real bad men, the fastest man alive with a gun, and with a record of twenty killings while marshal of Dodge City, Kansas. Sanc closed the door on the absorbed poker players as softly as he had opened it, and “officed” me to follow him out. “What’s wrong?” I asked.