in his
ugly heart; then he'd stop, always sure of his eye and his hand. It
was far more likely that with a crowd of his own sort he was gambling
in the card-room of the Last Chance saloon, the Jailbird saloon as
"white" men called it. For there was an ill-famed hang-out at the far
end of the straggling town, just at the edge of the Italian settlement,
that of late had come to be frequented by such as Quinnion; men who
were none too well loved by the greater part of the community, men who,
like Quinnion, had served time in jail or penitentiary. Black Steve,
who was both proprietor and bartender, and who looked like a low-class
Italian, though he spoke the vernacular of the country, was the god of
the "dago" quarter, the friend of those who had gotten entangled with
the law. Only last year he had killed his man in his own saloon, then
gone clear, through the combined perjury of his crowd.

The street grew steadily gloomier, filled with shadows. In front of
the Jailbird the only light came from within and made scant war on the
lurking darkness without. Lee's ears were greeted with the crazy whine
of an old accordion, and with men's voices lifted in laughter. He
shoved the swing door open with his shoulder, Carson pushed the other
half back, and the two stood on the threshold, their eyes swiftly
seeking Quinnion.

As though their presence had been a command for silence, a sudden hush
fell over the Jailbird. The accordion man drew out a last gasping note
and turned black round eyes upon them. Black Steve, oily and
perspiring behind his bar, caressed a heavy black mustache and looked
at them out of cold, expressionless eyes.

The first glance had shown Lee that Quinnion was not there. At least
not in the main room, but there were the card-rooms at the rear. He
gave no sign of having felt the hostility of the many eyes turned upon
him, but went quickly down through the room, turning neither to right
nor left.

"Hol' on there," came the big booming voice of Steve. "What you
fellers want, huh?"

Lee gave him no answer but strode on. Carson, at Lee's heels like a
grim old dog, showed his teeth a little. Steve, striking the bar with
a heavy hand, shouted in menacing tones:

"Hol' on, I say! Nobody goin' to break in on a play that's running in
my card-rooms. If you fellers want anything, you ask me."

"Go ahead, Bud," said Carson jocosely. "It's only the ol' black calf
bawling same as usual."

But Lee n