"I always know'd I was born too late," laughed Claw, who, noting the signs of approaching trouble, sought peace. "This here'd be a hell of a fine country, if it wasn't fer the Mounted. But, say, Ace-In-The-Hole, you doin' any good? Struck any color?"
Brent forgot Scroggs and turned to Claw: "No, not to speak of. Just about made wages."
"Well," continued the hooch runner, "You had a pretty fair sack of dust when you come in. What d'you say we start a little game of stud—jest the four of us?"
"Nothing doing," answered Brent, shortly. "I'm off of stud."
"Off of stud!" exclaimed the other, "How in hell d'you ever expect to git even? Stud owes you more dust than you kin pile on a sled!"
Brent drank a glass of rum: "The game can keep what it owes me. And besides I left my dust in camp—except a couple of ounces, or so."
"Yer finger bet goes with me," assured Claw, "Everybody's wouldn't, by a damn sight—but yourn does. What d'you say?"
"My word is good in a game, is it?" asked Brent.
"Good as the dust—in one, or out of one," promptly assured Claw.
"Well, then listen to this: I gave my word in the presence of the man who staked me for this trip, that I would never gamble again. So I reckon you know how much stud I'll play from now on."