“Root hog or die, boys!”

Happy’s boisterous exit caused a peculiar expression to appear immediately on Handsome’s face, which might be interpreted as one of envy at his friend’s exuberant condition; at all events, he proceeded forthwith to order several drinks, gulping them down in rapid succession.

Meanwhile, at the faro table, the luck was going decidedly against the boys.  In fact, so much so, that there was a dangerous note in Sonora’s voice when, presently, he blurted out: 

“See here, gambolier Sid, you’re too lucky!”

“You bet!” approved Trinidad, and then added: 

“More chips, Australier!”

But Trinidad’s comment, as well as his request, only brought forth the oily smile that The Sidney Duck always smiled when any reference was made to his game.  It was his policy to fawn upon all and never permit himself to think that an insult was intended.  So he gathered in Trinidad’s money and gave him chips in return.  For some seconds the men played on without anything disturbing the game except the loud voice of the caller of the wheel-of-fortune in the dance-hall.  But the boys were to hear something more from there besides, “Round goes the wheel!” For, all at once there came to their ears the sounds of an altercation in which it was not difficult to recognise the penetrating voice of Happy Halliday.

“Now, git, you loafer!” he was saying in tones that left no doubt in the minds of his friends that Happy was hot under the collar over something.

A shot followed.

“Missed, by the Lord Harry!” ejaculated Happy, deeply humiliated at his failure to increase the mortuary record of the camp.

The incident, however, passed unnoticed by the faro players; not a man within sound of the shot, for that matter, inquired what the trouble was about; and even Nick, picking up his tray filled with glasses and a bottle, walked straightway into the dance-hall looking as if the matter were not worth a moment’s thought.

At Nick’s going the Indian’s face brightened; it gave him the opportunity for which he had been waiting.  Nobly he maintained his reputation as a thief by quietly going behind the bar and lifting from a box four cigars which he stowed away in his pockets.  But even that, apparently did not satisfy him, for when he espied the butt of a cigar, flung into the sawdust on the floor by a man who had just come in, he picked it up before squatting down again to resume his card playing.

The newcomer, a man of, say, forty years, came slowly into the room without a word of salutation to anyone.  In common with his fellow-miners, he wore a flannel shirt and boots.  The latter gave every evidence of age as did his clothes which, nevertheless, were neat.  His face wore a mild, gentle look and would have said that he was companionable enough; yet it was impossible not to see that he was not willingly seeking the cheer of the saloon but came there solely because he had no other place to go.  In a word, he had every appearance of a man down on his luck.