“Lot of truth in that, too,” agreed the sheriff.
They left Cloudy trying to decide what to eat, and went to the Greenback Saloon. A few miners had come in from the camp at Greenhorn and were trying to beat one of the roulette wheels, but outside of that there was little going on there.
Ike Marsh was at the bar, talking to Faro Lanning, the owner of the Greenback. Lanning was a typical gambler, even to the waxed black mustache and the diamond horseshoe in his shirt bosom. He nodded to the sheriff, gave Hashknife and Sleepy a sharp glance, and turned back to the bar.
After the trio passed, he turned again and looked quizzically at Hashknife’s limping gait. Further back in the room, Torres and Garcia sat at a little table, Garcia asleep, while Torres perused a Mexican newspaper. At sight of Hashknife and Sleepy, Torres tapped Garcia on the ankle with the toe of his polished boot, and the half-breed looked quickly around.
The sheriff wandered over to the roulette wheel, while Hashknife and Sleepy sat down at a table. A man came in from the rear, and passed them on his way to the bar; a portly, well-dressed Chinaman. He gave them a keen glance, as he passed, and went to the bar.
“No pokah today, Faro?” he asked, smiling broadly.
“Hello, Lee.”
Faro removed his cigar and motioned the Chinaman to have a drink with him.
“No poker,” he replied. “Nobody wants to play, I guess.”
Torres and Garcia left their table and came past the bar, heading for the front door.