A man was lighting the hanging lamps, and Rathburn looked about through a haze of tobacco smoke at a cluster of crowded gaming tables, a short bar, cigar counter, and at the motley throng which jammed the small room.
He grinned as he read the sign over the cash register:
FREE DRINKS TO-MORROW
“Swiped in broad daylight from the grand old State of Texas,” he murmured aloud to himself.
Then he noticed a small restaurant in the rear of the place, separated from the main room by a partition, the upper part of which was glass.
He made his way back, passed through the door, and took a seat at the counter which afforded him a view of the resort through the glass. He ordered a substantial meal and, while waiting for it to be served, studied with calculating eyes the scene in the next room.
The men were mostly of the hills––miners constituting the majority. Of professional gamblers there were many, and there was also a plentiful sprinkling of that despicable species known as “boosters” whose business it is to sit in at the games in the interest of “the house;” to fleece the victims who occupy the few remaining seats.
But now he saw a man who apparently was not a miner, or a prospector, nor yet a member of the professional gambling tribe. This was a tall man, very dark, sinewy. He wore a gun.
At first Rathburn thought he might be a cow-puncher, for he wore riding boots, and had something of the air and bearing of a cowman; but he finally decided that this classification was inaccurate. An officer at one of the mines, perhaps; a forest 111 ranger––no, he didn’t wear the regalia of a ranger––Rathburn gave it up as his dinner was put before him on the counter.