Tresler watched these men take their seats for the game. Their recent bickering was wholly forgotten in the ruling passion for “draw.” And what a game it was! Each man, ignorant, uncultured in all else, was a past master at poker—an artist. The baser instincts of the game appealed to the uppermost sides of their natures. They were there to best each other by any manner of trickery. Each man understood that his neighbor was doing all he knew, nor did he resent it. Only would he resent it should the delinquent be found out. Then there would be real trouble. But they were all such old-time sinners. They had been doing that sort of thing for years, and would continue to do it for years more. It was the method of their lives, and Tresler had no opinion on the right or wrong of it. He had no right to judge them, and, besides, he had every sympathy for them as struggling units in Life’s great battle.
But presently he left the table, for Fyles came in, and he had been waiting for him. But the sheriff came by himself, and Tresler asked him the reason.
“Well, you see, Nelson is outside, Tresler,” the burly man said, with something like a smile. “He wouldn’t come in. Shall we go out to him?”
The other assented, and they passed out. Joe was sitting on his buckskin pony, gazing at the saloon with an infinite longing in his old eyes.
“Why are you sitting there?” Tresler asked at once. Then he regretted his question.
“Wal,” Joe drawled, without the least hesitation, “I’m figgerin’ you oughter know by this time. Ther’s things born to live on liquid, an’ they’ve mostly growed tails. Guess I ain’t growed that—yet. Mebbe I’ll git down at Doc. Osler’s. An’ I’ll git on agin right ther’,” he added, as an afterthought.
Joe smiled as much as his twisted face would permit, but Tresler was annoyed with himself for having forced such a confession from him.
“Well, I’m sorry I suggested it, Joe,” he said quickly; “as you say, I ought to have known better. Never mind, I want you to do me a favor.”
“Name it, an’ I’ll do it if I bust.”