The newcomers seemed to be enjoying themselves enormously, and the greatest good-will prevailed. Nor was it until nearly supper-time that Bill suddenly stood up and declared he had had enough. He was a loser to the extent of nearly a hundred dollars.
So the party broke up. And at Minky’s suggestion the men departed to put their horses in the barn, while they partook of supper under his roof. It was the moment they had gone that the storekeeper turned on his friend.
“Say, I ain’t got you, Bill. Wot’s your game?” he demanded, with some asperity.
But the gambler was quite undisturbed by his annoyance. He only chuckled.
“Say,” he countered, “ever heerd tell of Swanny Long, the biggest tough in Idaho?”
“Sure. But––”
“That’s him––that feller Sim Longley.”
The storekeeper stared.
“You sure?”
“Sure? Gee! I was after him fer nigh three––Say,” he broke off––it was not his way to indulge in reminiscence––“I guess he’s workin’ with James.” Then he laughed. “Gee! I allow he was rigged elegant––most like some Bible-smashin’ sky-pilot.”