Somebody's mongrel paced to the middle of the platform and scratched for fleas, with soft thumping on the floor. That was all.
Suddenly a man swore! A woman's voice shrilled hysterically! Faro Sam rose to his feet ceremoniously. “The house is yours.”
“By Jinks!” yelled Curly, “I've coppered the jack! I've broken the bank! I've—”
One of the doors swung open quietly. Silence dropped once more, with the speed of tropical night, upon the blare of the place.
The gambler's ghost stood there silhouetted against the light from a log fire outside. There were pink streaks down his dirty face, washed by tears, and his young shoulders drooped woefully. The dog came forward and licked his twitching fingers.
“Allie is dead,” he whispered.
“Curly, I should like to apply for the position of dealer over at your place, which yesterday was my place,” said Faro Sam, next day at noon, meeting Curly on the street.
“Sure, you can have it, Sam. Too bad it's the custom for the house to go, too, when somebody breaks the bank. I've turned it over to George Spellman, with a thousand to start with. He and I come from the same place back in the States. Great friends we were, till we both got to sparkin' the same girl. When she took me, George, he got pretty ornery, but I guess he's all over it by this time. I'm goin' home to marry her, now.
“I've just been around to the tents seein' about little Allie's funeral, an' he'll keep on the girls, too. I'm pullin' my freight for Hangtown (Placerville). This town's a little too small for a fellow of my means.”
Faro Sam looked after him with a cynical light in his narrow eyes.