he valued
anything in the world. Poker he looked upon as a means to an end. He had
no religious principles, but firmly believed in doing as he would be
done by. Honesty and truth he loved, because to him they were clean. It
mattered nothing to him what his surroundings might be, for, though
living in them, he was not of them. He would as soon sit down to play
cards with three known murderers as play in the best club in London, and
he would treat them honestly and expect the same in return--but a loaded
revolver would be slung upon his hip and the holster would be open and
handy.

As he neared the saloon he recognized the figures of two men walking in
the direction of the saloon. They were the doctor and John Allandale. He
rode towards them.

"Hallo, Bill, whither bound?" said the old rancher, as the younger man
came up. "Going to join us in the parlor of Smith's fragrant hostelry?
The spider is already there weaving the web in which he hopes to ensnare
us."

Bunning-Ford shook his head.

"Who's the spider--Lablache?"

"Yes, we're going to play. It's the first time for some days. Guess
we've all been too busy with the round-up. Won't you really join us?"

"Can't. I've promised Mancha and 'Pickles' revenge for a game we played
the other night, when I happened to relieve them of a few dollars."

"Sensible man--Lablache is too consistent," put in the doctor, quietly.

"Nonsense," said "Poker" John, optimistically. "You're always carping
about the man's luck. We must break it soon."

"Yes, we've suggested that before."

Bill spoke with meaning and finished up with a purse of the lips.

They were near the saloon.

"How long are you going to play?" he went on quietly.

"Right through the evening," replied "Poker" John, with keen
satisfaction. "And you?"

"Only until four o'clock. I am going to take tea up at your place."

The old man offered no comment and Bill dismounted and tied the horse to
a post, and the three men entered the stuffy bar. The room was half full
of people. They were mostly cow-boys or men connected with the various
ranches about the neighborhood. Words of greeting hailed the new-comers
on all sides, but old John, who led the way, took little or no notice of
those whom he recognized. The lust of gambling was upon him, and, as a
dipsomaniac craves for drink, so he was longing to feel the smooth
surface of pasteboard between his fingers. While Bunning-Ford stopped to
exchange a word with so