round, green-topped card tables.  In the rear was the billiard and pool equipment, which entitled the place to the name “pool-room.”  Just across from the farther end of the bar and near the last card table a half-dozen hard-looking, small-town “toughs”—­creatures who loafed about Sabota’s and aided him, as occasion required, in his boot-legging operations or other questionable enterprises—­were lounging, some standing, some sitting, watching a slow poker game going on at the last table.  Cards, under the laws of Texas, are taboo, but for some reason Sabota managed to get by and games were allowed in his place.

The two cowboys the Ramblin’ Kid had mentioned, a rancher from the irrigated section near Eagle Butte and “Jeff” Henderson, one of Sabota’s henchmen, who was playing for the house, were sitting in at the game.

Half-way down the room at one side against the wall a mechanical player piano was grinding out garish, hurdy-gurdy music.

“Red” Jackson was dispensing soft drinks from behind the bar.

Sabota himself, with one heel caught on the brass foot-rail, was leaning indolently but with a lordly air against the front of the polished, imitation mahogany counter.

He had been drinking and was in his shirt-sleeves.

As Skinny and the Ramblin’ Kid stepped into the pool-room Sabota glanced around.  For an instant he eyed the Ramblin’ Kid keenly while a nasty sneer curled his lips.  As they approached he turned the grin into a hypocritical smile of welcome.  The Ramblin’ Kid barely noticed the Greek and passed on to where the card game was in progress.  Skinny paused and said something in a low tone to Sabota.  The two walked to the rear end of the bar where the proprietor of the place in turn spoke to Red and the latter furtively handed a pint bottle to the cowboy and which he dropped into the bosom of his flannel shirt.

The Ramblin’ Kid was recognized by the cowboys from the Purgatory.

“Come on and get into the game!” one of them invited, moving over.

“Yes,” Henderson added, hitching his own chair to one side to make room for another, “the cards are running like”—­he paused—­“like the Gold Dust maverick for everybody but the house!” There was a laugh at the subtle reference to the outlaw filly that had cost Sabota so much in losses on the sweepstakes at the Rodeo.

The Greek scowled.

“In that case,” the Ramblin’ Kid drawled, “I reckon I’ll ride ’em a few rounds!” dropping into the chair he had dragged forward and which placed him with his back toward the bar.

“What they costin’ a stack?” he questioned, reaching to the left breast pocket of his shirt for a roll of bills.

In the same pocket was the pink satin garter Carolyn June had lost the morning of his first meeting with her at the circular corral.

“Five bones!” Jeff answered languidly.

“Well, give me a couple of piles,” the Ramblin’ Kid replied, glancing around at the cowboy sitting at his right, who had invited him into the game.  “How’s the Purgatory?”