play got next her too near, I
reckon she'd have stacked the cyards. Say, d' yu' remember Shakespeare's
fat man?"

"Falstaff? Oh, yes, indeed."

"Ain't that grand? Why, he makes men talk the way they do in life.
I reckon he couldn't get printed to-day. It's a right down shame
Shakespeare couldn't know about poker. He'd have had Falstaff playing
all day at that Tearsheet outfit. And the Prince would have beat him."

"The Prince had the brains," said I.

"Brains?"

"Well, didn't he?"

"I neveh thought to notice. Like as not he did."

"And Falstaff didn't, I suppose?"

"Oh, yes, seh! Falstaff could have played whist."

"I suppose you know what you're talking about; I don't," said I, for he
was drawling again.

The cow-puncher's eye rested a moment amiably upon me. "You can play
whist with your brains," he mused,--"brains and cyards. Now cyards are
only one o' the manifestations of poker in this hyeh world. One o' the
shapes yu fool with it in when the day's work is oveh. If a man is built
like that Prince boy was built (and it's away down deep beyond brains),
he'll play winnin' poker with whatever hand he's holdin' when the
trouble begins. Maybe it will be a mean, triflin' army, or an empty
six-shooter, or a lame hawss, or maybe just nothin' but his natural
countenance. 'Most any old thing will do for a fello' like that Prince
boy to play poker with."

"Then I'd be grateful for your definition of poker," said I.

Again the Virginian looked me over amiably. "You put up a mighty pretty
game o' whist yourself," he remarked. "Don't that give you the contented
spirit?" And before I had any reply to this, the Christian Endeavor
began to come over the bridge. Three instalments crossed the Missouri
from Pacific Junction, bound for Pike's Peak, every car swathed in
bright bunting, and at each window a Christian with a handkerchief,
joyously shrieking. Then the cattle trains got the open signal, and I
jumped off. "Tell the Judge the steers was all right this far," said the
Virginian.

That was the last of the deputy foreman for a while.

XIV. BETWEEN THE ACTS

My road to Sunk Creek lay in no straight line. By rail I diverged
northwest to Fort Meade, and thence, after some stay with the kind
military people, I made my way on a horse. Up here in the Black Hills it
sluiced rain most intolerably. The horse and I enjoyed the country and
ourselves but little; and when finally I changed from the saddle into a
s