Bert Wilson in the Rockies

by J. W. Duffield

The conversation with Mr. Melton that morning recurred to him. He pulled his hat over his eyes, half turned in his seat, and, picking up a greasy pack of cards that lay on the table began to lay them out before him as in solitaire. But under the brim of his sombrero, his keen eyes stole frequent glances at the two, who had now adjourned to a table in the farther corner and were engaged in a low and earnest conversation.

The stranger had before him what seemed to be a diagram, drawn on the back of an old envelope, and both studied it with care, Pedro especially, as though seeking to engrave it on his memory. Then he nodded assent to what the other had been saying, and they shook hands, evidently in confirmation of a bargain. Once more they adjourned to the bar, gulped down several glasses of the fiery liquor that masqueraded as whiskey, and then Pedro, with a gesture of farewell, went outside. A moment later Bert heard the clatter of hoofs as he rode away.

There was no further need of concealment, and with exceeding care Bert studied the features of the man who he felt sure was involved in some plan that boded no good to Pedro's employer.

The fellow was tall and heavily built, and dressed in a more gaudy style than that usually affected by the cowboys. Bert could not remember having seen him among the employees of the neighboring ranches. His face bore traces of drink and dissipation and was seamed with evil passions. There was a lurid glow in his eyes that brought back to Bert the memory of the men who had tried to hold up the train. He seemed naturally to fall into that class. Instinctively Bert felt that in some way he was to be ranked with the outcasts that war upon society. A cruel mouth showed beneath a hawk-like nose that gave him the appearance of a bird of prey. To Bert he seemed a living embodiment of all that he had ever heard or read of the "bad man" of the Western frontier.

The stranger stood a little while longer at the bar. Then he strolled over to a table where four men were playing, and watched the game with the critical eye of an expert.

Soon one of the men kicked his chair back and rose with an oath.

"Busted," he growled. "Not a dinero left. That last hand cleaned me out."

"Aw, don't go yet, Jim," protested one of his companions. "Your credit's good and you can play on your I. O. U.'s."

"Yes," agreed another. "Or you can put up that Spanish saddle of yourn. I've allers had a kind of hankerin' fur that. It's good fur eighty plunks in chips."

"Nuthin' doin'," announced the first emphatically. "Any time I hold four kings and still can't rake in the pot, it shore is my unlucky day. But I'll be here with bells on next pay day. So long," and he strode out of the room, slamming the door behind him.