The fellow was tall and heavily built, and dressed in a more gaudy style than that usually affected by the cowboys.  Bert could not remember having seen him among the employees of the neighboring ranches.  His face bore traces of drink and dissipation and was seamed with evil passions.  There was a lurid glow in his eyes that brought back to Bert the memory of the men who had tried to hold up the train.  He seemed naturally to fall into that class.  Instinctively Bert felt that in some way he was to be ranked with the outcasts that war upon society.  A cruel mouth showed beneath a hawk-like nose that gave him the appearance of a bird of prey.  To Bert he seemed a living embodiment of all that he had ever heard or read of the “bad man” of the Western frontier.

The stranger stood a little while longer at the bar.  Then he strolled over to a table where four men were playing, and watched the game with the critical eye of an expert.

Soon one of the men kicked his chair back and rose with an oath.

“Busted,” he growled.  “Not a dinero left.  That last hand cleaned me out.”

“Aw, don’t go yet, Jim,” protested one of his companions.  “Your credit’s good and you can play on your I. O. U.’s.”

“Yes,” agreed another.  “Or you can put up that Spanish saddle of yourn.  I’ve allers had a kind of hankerin’ fur that.  It’s good fur eighty plunks in chips.”

“Nuthin’ doin’,” announced the first emphatically.  “Any time I hold four kings and still can’t rake in the pot, it shore is my unlucky day.  But I’ll be here with bells on next pay day.  So long,” and he strode out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

The others were preparing to go on three-handed, when the stranger intervened.

“If it’s an open game, gents, and you’ve no objections, I’ll take a hand,” he said.

As no one demurred, he slid into the vacant chair, bought a hundred dollars worth of chips and the game proceeded.

For a time Fortune seemed to divide her favors impartially, and the chips before each player remained about the same.  Then the luck changed and the stranger began to win heavily.  He raked in one pot after another, losing only occasionally, and then, generally, when the stakes were small.  The atmosphere about the table became tense and feverish, and gradually most of the others in the room gathered about the players and watched the progress of the game.

It was the newcomer’s deal.  The pack had been cut, and he was dealing out the cards, when suddenly one of the players leaped to his feet.

“Foul play,” he shouted.  “You dealt that last card from the bottom of the pack.”  And at the same instant he threw over the table and reached for his gun.

But quick as he was, the stranger was quicker.  Like a flash his revolver spoke, and his opponent fell to the floor.  But the others now had started shooting and there was a fusillade.  The spectators dropped behind anything that promised shelter and the bartender went out of sight under the counter.  Only after the revolvers had been emptied did the firing cease.