Ham Dalton's place was the one the man had directed him to, and Hicks, I after engaging the best rooms in the house for seventy-five cents, scrubbed a little of the dust of travel from his person and went down to the bar and gambling room. The drink of whiskey he got made even his trained throat writhe, and he strolled over to the poker table to join a group of calm and plainly-armed spectators of high play.
From the conversation he learned that the dam at Red Gut was washed out; that Case Egan, a noted rancher, was in jail for shooting a deputy sheriff, and that Hal Haines was expecting a "millionairess gal" visitor from New York.
"When'll she be on?" drawled one of the players.
"Tomorrow's express."
"Sence when did the express stop at Rockvale?"
"Sence the president o' the road told it to stop for this here young person," replied the informant crushingly.
Hicks was scanning the faces of the men about him with a purposeful eye. Especially he watched one—a lean man in red shirt and leather breeches, booted and spurred, who stood near the table.
Hicks approached him. "Hello, Patten," he said.
The man whirled so sharply that the revolver he had drawn, in whirling, caught in Hick's coat and jerked him into the middle of the room. The poker game went on without a sound or sign of interruption. The bartender took a casual look at Hicks and the gunman, then went on talking to a customer, as before.
"Hello, Hicks," said Patten, putting up the gun. "I'm much obliged that I didn't kill you. We don't greet old friends quite so hasty out here, boy, as you do in New York—especially when we haven't heard our right name in some years," he added in a lowered voice.