One of the “gentlemen” grinned. He was a round-bodied, bullet-headed cowpuncher, with a face like burnt leather. He was in chaps, flannel shirt, and broad-brimmed hat. From a pocket in his chaps a revolver protruded. “That's right, Jed. Wrap it up proper. You'd hate to disturb us, wouldn't you?”
“I'll not interrupt you from losing your money more than five minutes, Yorky,” answered Briscoe promptly.
The third man at the table laughed suddenly. “Ay bane laik to know how yuh feel now, Yorky?” he taunted.
“It ain't you that's taking my spondulix in, you big, overgrown Swede!” returned Yorky amiably. “It's the gent from Texas. How can a fellow buck against luck that fills from a pair to a full house on the draw?”
The blond giant, Siegfried—who was not a Swede, but a Norwegian—announced that he was seventeen dollars in the game himself.
Tommie, already broke, and an onlooker, reported sadly.
“Sixty-one for me, durn it!”
Jed picked up a lamp, led the way to the other room, and closed the door behind them.
“I thought it might interest you to know that there's a new arrival in the valley, Mr. Struve,” he said smoothly.
“Who says my name's Struve?” demanded the man who called himself Johnson, with fierce suspicion.