me of those he met, the other two men went
straight up to the bar. Smith himself, a grizzled old man, with a
tobacco-stained gray moustache and beard, and the possessor of a pair of
narrow, wicked-looking eyes, was serving out whisky to a couple of
worse-looking half-breeds. It was noticeable that every man present wore
at his waist either a revolver or a long sheath knife. Even the
proprietor was fully armed. The half-breeds wore knives.

"Poker" John was apparently a man of distinction here. Possibly the
knowledge that he played a big game elicited for him a sort of
indifferent respect. Anyway, the half-breeds moved to allow him to
approach the bar.

"Lablache here?" asked the rancher, eagerly.

"He is," replied Mr. Smith, in a drawling voice, as he pushed the two
whiskies across to the waiting half-breeds. "Been here half an hour.
Jest pass right through, mister. Maybe you'll find him located in number
two."

There was no doubt that John B. Smith hailed from America. Although the
Canadian is not devoid of the American accent there is not much doubt of
nationality when one hears the real thing.

"Good; come on, Doc. No, thanks, Smith," as the man behind the bar
reached towards a bottle with a white seal. "We'll have something later
on. Number two on the right, I think you said."

The two men passed on into the back part of the premises.

"Guess dollars'll be flyin' 'fore the night's out," said Smith,
addressing any who cared to listen, and indicating "Poker" John with a
jerk of the head in the direction of the door through which the two men
had just passed. "Make the banks hum when they raise the 'bid.' Guess
ther' ain't many o' ther' likes roun' these parts. Rye or Scotch?" to
"Lord" Bill and three other men who came up at that moment. Mancha and
"Pickles" were with him, and a fourth player--the deposed captain of the
"round-up," Sim Lory.

"Scotch, you old heathen, of course," replied Bill, with a tolerant
laugh. "You don't expect us to drink fire-water. If you kept decent Rye
it would be different. We're going to have a flutter. Any room?"

"Number two, I guess. Chock-a-block in the others. Tolerable run on
poker these times. All the round-up hands been gettin' advances, I take
it. Say when."

The four men said "when" in due course, and each watered his own whisky.
The proprietor went on, with a quick twinkle of his beady eyes,--

"Ther's Mr. Allandale an' Lablache and company in number two. Nobody
el