t, but that they meant to shut down on Kirby. You see, Kirby was a
very lucky player, and although pretty rough things were said about
it, nobody ever got a clear handle against him, and he wasn't the kind
of fellow that was pleasant to affront. Kirby used to say it was all
along of Clint; that he ought to have been kept from the cards, or
sent down the river; that we'd have had a good run of luck all winter
if it hadn't been for him. I don't know the rights properly, but I
allers thought it was about six of one and a half dozen of the other.
Anyhow, there was bad blood about it, and _that_ don't run up hill,
you know, and so there was trouble soon enough. The boys got into
words one night, and Kirby threw a mug at Clint, who out with his
knife and was at Kirby like a flash. Lucky for him Clint's eyes
weren't in good seeing order, and the liquor hadn't made his arm any
the more steady, so Kirby only got a scratch on his arm. It showed
what Clint would like to do, though, and some of the boys made pretty
heavy bets on the end of it. I stuck up for Kirby, for you see I knew
him pretty well, and there was true grit in him; and then, too, he
was oncommon pleasant about it, and even stopped saying much about
Clint's blocking up our luck over at the Run.

"Well, just about then Jack White came over from Cambria and told
Clint that he'd heard that his uncle was asking around where he was.
You see, Clint's uncle had a store down there, and had made a tidy
pile of money, and as he hadn't any children, he said he wouldn't mind
leaving it to him if he was living respectable. Clint had lived with
him when he was a boy, but they hadn't got along very well, so Clint
ran off. The old man didn't mind this, though, and now he wanted to
find him. Jack said he was sure that if Clint was to go over and play
his cards right he'd get the money. You may be sure this was a stroke
of luck for Clint just then, and he didn't like to lose it; but you
see he didn't look very genteel, and he knew his uncle was sharp
enough to find it out. He was fat enough, for whiskey never made a
living skeleton of him, but it was plain that it wasn't good health
that had made his nose so red, nor fine manners that had given him the
cut across his cheek and bruised up his eye. The boys all allowed that
he was the hardest-looking chap in the camp, and if his uncle left him
his money, it wouldn't be on the strength of his good countenance! But
you know he had to do