It was Mosher, with his bald head, his crafty little eyes, his flat nose, his black beard. I saw Jim's face harden. He had always shown a bitter hatred of this man, and often I wondered why.
We stood a little way off. The crowd thinned and filtered away until but one remained, one of the tall young men from Minnesota. We heard Mosher's rich voice.
"Say, pard, bet ten dollars you can't place the bean. See! I put the little joker under here, right before your eyes. Now, where is it?"
"Here," said the man, touching one of the shells.
"Right you are, my hearty! Well, here's your ten."
The man from Minnesota took the money and was going away.
"Hold on," said Mosher; "how do I know you had the money to cover that bet?"
The man laughed and took from his pocket a wad of bills an inch thick.
"Guess that's enough, ain't it?"
Quick as lightning Mosher had snatched the bills from him, and the man from Minnesota found himself gazing into the barrel of a six-shooter.