ly sign of inward anger was a mark like an
old scar which extended from his right temple, beginning over the eye
and disappearing in his closely-cropped hair behind the ear. This line
became an angry red that stood out against the general pallor of his
face when things were going in a way that did not please him. He spoke
in a low tone to Mellish.

"What's the excitement down at the other end of the room? Every one
seems congregated there."

"Oh," answered Mellish, "it's a boy--a stranger--who is having the
devil's own luck at the start. It will be the ruin of him."

"Is he playing high?"

"High? I should say so. He's perfectly reckless. He'll be brought up
with a sharp turn and will borrow money from me to get out of town.
I've seen a flutter like that before."

"In that case," said Pony tranquilly, "I must have a go at him. I like
to tackle a youngster in the first flush of success, especially if he
is plunging."

"You will soon have a chance," answered Mellish, "for even Ragstock
knows when he has enough. He will get up in a moment. I know the
signs."

With the air of a gentleman of leisure, somewhat tired of the
frivolities of this world, Rowell made his way slowly to the group. As
he looked over their shoulders at the boy a curious glitter came into
his piercing eyes, and his lips, usually so well under control,
tightened. The red mark began to come out as his face paled. It was
evident that he did not intend to speak and that he was about to move
away again, but the magnetism of his keen glance seemed to disturb the
player, who suddenly looked up over the head of his opponent and met
the stern gaze of Rowell.

The boy did three things. He placed his cards face downward on the
table, put his right hand over the pile of money, and moved his chair
back.

"What do you mean by that?" cried Ragstock.

The youth ignored the question, still keeping his eyes on Rowell.

"Do you squeal?" he asked.

"I squeal," said Pony, whatever the question and answer might mean.
Then Rowell cried, slightly raising his voice so that all might hear:

"This man is Cub McLean, the most notorious card-sharper, thief, and
murderer in the west. He couldn't play straight if he tried."

McLean laughed. "Yes," he said; "and if you want to see my trademark
look at the side of Greggs' face."

Every man looked at Pony, learning for the first time that he had gone
under a different name at some period of his life.

During the mom