“This is a cinch,” assured Putney. “Just let me get at McGee.”
Twenty miles south of Lost Hills was the town of Salt Wells, from which place a stage line ran to Lost Hills. In a dingy little room at Salt Wells’ only hotel, two men sat at a table playing poker. It was early in the evening, and both men were too interested in the game to light a lamp.
One man was tall and lean, with deep-set eyes and a long, damp-looking nose. He breathed through his mouth, and regularly he wiped a long, gnarled finger across his nose, in lieu of a handkerchief.
The other man was also fairly tall, but not so thin. His face was also tanned, but his fingers were more nimble with the cards. He seemed greatly amused over his good luck. On the table between them was a cartridge-belt and holstered Colt six-shooter, and a scattering of currency.
The man with the bothersome nose spread his hand, his watery eyes triumphant. But the other man spread his hand, and without a word he picked up the belt, gun and money.
“Anything else?” asked the winner.
“Nobe,” The other man got heavily to his feet. “I’be cleaged.”
“All right, pardner. It was a good game eh?”
“Good gabe for you.”
The winner smiled and left the room, a huge sombrero, with an ornate silver band, tilted rakishly over one eye. The loser looked gloomily after him, flirting a forefinger across his nose. He dug in a pocket and took out several little bottles and boxes, which he studied closely. Each and every one was a guaranteed cure for colds.