Lee Yung, the fat, bland-faced Chinaman, sat stolidly in a chair at a poker table, pitting his wits against Faro Lanning. The rest of the players were of no moment to Lee Yung, who would bet a thousand dollars with about the same emotion as a sphinx.
Torres wanted to play poker, but not in such fast company, so he confined his efforts to trying to outguess the roulette wheel, where he could also keep an eye on the front door.
It was after dark that Hashknife, Sleepy, Ike Marsh, Musical Matthews, and Cleve Davis came in. They clanked up to the bar and greeted the bartender vociferously. Hashknife saw Torres and grinned widely. Torres tried to smile, but the effort was too great.
In his perturbation he made a foolish bet, and watched the dealer sweep away his money. Hashknife swung away from the bar and came toward the roulette game. He seemed entirely unconcerned, but his eyes took in every move made by the dandy Mexican.
Torres’ right hand moved nervously toward his sash, stopped, dropped back to his side. He knew that there was no use of him provoking trouble, so he proceeded to use discretion.
“How’s she goin’?” asked Hashknife pleasantly.
“Buena,” said Torres.
He watched Hashknife place several small bets, wondering why this tall cowpuncher, who had so blithely dumped him into the tub of dirty water, seemed to have forgotten it so soon. He wondered if it was ignorance or bravado.
Hashknife looked up from his bets and studied Torres’ clothes.