“The pot bubbles loudest when the water's nearest the bottom,” he muttered, and turned to pick a fastidious way through the mud.
Life that night in the gambling hell went on much as usual. Teddy Karns “poured the rye,” and Faro Sam “slipped the cards,” whilst Babe worried over Bouncing Bet's intoxicated condition.
“It's Allie, you know,” Babe confided to Red Shirt Pete at midnight. “She took it awful hard, and Spellman, the new boss, wouldn't let 'er off tonight. I bin tellin' 'er Allie's better off, but she won't listen to nobody. She's just bin pourin' 'em down all evenin'. What's that?” at a loud banging on the doors. Some one opened them and Curly rode into the place on the handsome horse he had bought that morning.
“Well, boys, I'm cleaned! Tried to copper the jack in Hangtown and the whole $50,000 went. George, I'll be askin' for this place back, I guess.”
“This place belongs to me, Curly Gillmore.”
“Who says so?”
“This old lady says so,” covering him with his pistol.
Curly laughed, not too musically. “Well, boys, what am I bid for this horse? I need a grubstake.”
“Play you for him,” said Faro Sam, laconically.
“Done,” said Curly. A moment later he laughed once more and swung down off the Spanish thoroughbred. “He's yours. Well, good-night, boys.”