In one corner of the tent was a quaint table or counter, constructed of three old boards and two trestles, upon which were deposited a lot of rolled Canadian smoking and chewing tobacco, clay pipes, and several long-necked bottles.  Pinned to the tent, behind the counter, was a card, on which was scrawled, in characters which scorned all laws of proportion, “Mild Drinks.”  It was owing to the abhorred fashion of the North-West Mounted Police, of confiscating drinks that were not mild, that Shuter was led to display this prevaricating sign.

Behind the counter stood Nellie Shuter, a dashing, good-looking young woman of about twenty-three, while seated at a number of rude tables were laborers throwing dice and playing poker.  Leaning nonchalantly on the counter were two or three young men, who were making themselves agreeable to the fair attendant behind it.

Joe quietly edged his way through the tent till he came to a table near the counter, at which were seated his mate, Harry Langdon, and Bill Shuter.  Shuter was a tall, spare man, with a somewhat receding chin and small, very light-colored blue eyes, which had a habit of looking past one while their owner was speaking.  A glance at Harry’s face was sufficient to show that he had been drinking heavily.  Although Shuter had drunk sparingly, there was a strange irritable expression about his face.

Seating himself some little distance from the two men, Joe covertly watched the play.  He soon perceived that Harry was paying little or no attention to the game—­although it was poker—­his attention being almost entirely fixed on Nellie, who was flirting outrageously with her admirers.  Every time her flippant laugh reached him a pained look crossed his sensitive face, but she pretended to be as unconscious of it as she appeared to be of his reproachful glances.

Despite his loose play, however, Harry drew a number of hands that a child could have won with.  Finally he laid down his cards and said, “I guess I won’t play any more to-night, Shuter.”

“Bring us a drink, Nellie,” was Shuter’s response.

As Harry raised to his lips the glass of reddish-looking fluid which Nellie brought, Shuter said insolently, “It’s not the custom of men in this country to run away when they are winning.”  His daughter heard the words—­as he had intended—­and looking Harry full in the face, shrugged her shoulders contemptuously.  No plan of attack could have been more subtle.  Harry’s face flushed violently, and sitting down hastily, he said:  “You know it would take me weeks to win back the money I have lost with you; but it’s all right; deal the cards.”

As Joe sat and watched this by-play, he was so enraged that he could scarcely keep from springing to his feet and laying his huge hands on Shuter.