"Ah! curse the luck!" exclaimed the sharp, slapping down the cards; "you have won again, pilgrim, and I am five hundred out. By the gods, your luck is something astonishing!"
"Luck!" laughed the other, coolly: "well, no. I do not call it luck, for I never have luck. We'll call it chance!"
"Just as you say," growled the gambler, bringing forth a new pack. "Chance and luck are then twin companions. Will you continue longer, Mr.——"
"Redburn," finished the pilgrim.
"Ah! yes—Mr. Redburn, will you continue?"
"I will play as long as there is anything to play for," again finished Mr. R., twisting the waxed ends of his mustache calmly. "Maybe you have got your fill, eh?"
"No; I'll play all night to win back what I have lost."
A youth, attired in buck-skin, and apparently a couple of years younger than Redburn, came sauntering along at this juncture, and seeing an unoccupied chair at one end of the table (for Redburn and the gambler sat at the sides, facing each other), he took possession of it forthwith.
"Hello!" and the sharp swore roundly. "Who told you to mix in your lip, pilgrim?"
"Nobody, as I know of. Thought I'd squat right here, and watch your sleeves!" was the significant retort, and the youth laid a cocked six-shooter on the table in front of him.