Gopher Gabe, fat but rat-eyed, sat in one of the little rooms back of his saloon, a schooner of beer on the table before him. His full jaws had a sleek, round, well-fed look, which, with his eyes, gave him a fancied resemblance to the thick-cheeked, pouched gopher of the West, and had conferred on him the name by which he was best known.
In another respect the saloon keeper was like the gopher: He worked underground. Though in secret connection with most of the “bad” men of Blossom Range, he had managed to hide the fact from the general knowledge of the public. Most people were reluctant to think that a man so “whole-souled” as Gopher Gabe could be a secret partner with the thugs and road agents who had made Blossom Range notorious.
He ran a saloon, it was true, and gambling was done there. Also, he had an interest in the Casino and the unsavory wine rooms connected with it. Everybody knew that, yet few, if any, guessed the whole truth.
Into the small room where Gopher Gabe sat, White-eyed Moses suddenly projected himself at such speed that his coat tails flapped out behind him. His white eyes were staring and he was much excited, as well as breathless.
“Vhat an escabe!” he gasped, sinking into a chair.
Gopher Gabe, who had lifted the foaming glass, put it down untouched.
“What in Sam Hill——”
“You said I shouldt vatch Buffalo Bill’s rooms, if I could,” explained the fiddler. “So when, this morning, I seen Shepardt go dare, and then this voman, Miss Vera Bright, I triedt it. That is vhat I mean. They were in his room, talking, and I dropped down by the door, in the hall outsite. I vas gitting some imbortant information, I t’ought, vhen that trapper chumbed at the door, and I had to gidt.”
He breathed heavily.