On his way to the bar he cast an appraising glance around the room and located his men.  Here, too, a less experienced man might have blundered.  One, known to his fellows as the Native Son, would scarcely be mistaken; his dress, too, evidently matched the silver-trimmed saddle outside.  But Andy Green, in blue overalls turned up five inches at the bottom, and somewhat battered gray hat and gray chambray shirt, might have been almost any type of outdoor man.  Certain it is that few strangers would have guessed that he was one of the best riders in that part of the State.

Luck bought a couple of good cigars, threw away his cigarette and lighted one, set the knuckles of his left hand upon his hip, and sauntered over to the pool table where the two men he wanted to meet were languidly playing out their third string.  He watched them for a few minutes, smiled sympathetically when Andy Green made a scratch and swore over it, and backed out of the way of the Native Son, who sprawled himself over the table corner and did not seem to know or to care how far the end of his cue reached behind him.

Luck did not say a word to either; but Andy, noting the smile of sympathy, gave him a keenly attentive glance as he came up to that end of the table to empty a corner pocket.  He fished out the four and the nine, juggled them absently in his hand, and turned and looked at Luck again, straight and close.  Luck once more smiled his smile.

“No, I don’t believe you know me, brother,” he said, answering Andy’s unspoken thought.  “I’d have remembered you if I’d ever met you.  You may have seen me in a picture somewhere.”

“By gracious, are you the little fellow that drove a stage coach and six horses down off a grade—­”

“That’s my number, old-timer.”  Luck’s smile widened to a grin.  That had been a hair-lifting scene, and Andy Green was not the first stranger to walk up and ask him if he had driven that stage coach and six horses down off a mountain grade into a wide gulch to avoid being held up and the regulation box of gold stolen.  It was probably the most spectacular thing Luck had ever done.  “Got down that bank fine as silk,” he volunteered companionably, “and then when I’d passed camera and was outa the scene, by thunder, I tangled up with a deep chuck-hole that was grown over with weeds, and like to have broken my fool neck.  How’s that for luck?” He took the cigar from his lips and smiled again with half-closed, measuring eyes.  “Yes, sir, I just plumb spoiled one perfectly good Concord coach, and would have been playing leading corpse at a funeral, believe me, if I hadn’t strapped myself to the seat for that drive off the grade.  As it was, I hung head down and cussed till one of the boys cut me loose.  Where did you see the picture?”

“Me?  Up in the Falls.  Say, I’m glad to meet you.  Luck Lindsay’s your name, ain’t it?  I remember you were called that in the picture.  Mine’s Green, Andy Green,—­when folks don’t call me something worse.  And this is Miguel Rapponi, a whole lot whiter than he sounds.  What, for Lordy sake, you wasting time on this little old hasbeen burg for?  Take it from me, there ain’t anything left here but dents in the road and a brimstone smell.  We’re all plumb halter-broke and so tame we—­”