"That Blandy—I've got no use for him. His faro game's crooked, or I'm locoed bronc. Not that we don't have lots of crooked faro dealers. A fellow can stand for them. But Blandy's mean, back handed, never looks you in the eyes. That Hope So place ought to be run by a good fellow like you, Hoden."
"Thanks, Russ," replied he, and I imagined his voice a little husky. "Didn't you ever hear I used to run it?"
"No. Did you?" I said quickly.
"I reckon. I built the place, made additions twice, owned it for eleven years."
"Well, I'll be doggoned!"
It was indeed my turn to be surprised, and with the surprise came glimmering.
"I'm sorry you're not there now, Jim. Did you sell out?"
"No. Just lost the place."
Hoden was bursting for relief now—to talk—to tell. Sympathy had made him soft. I did not need to ask another question.
"It was two years ago—two years last March," he went on. "I was in a big cattle deal with Sampson. We got the stock, an' my share, eighteen hundred head, was rustled off. I owed Sampson. He pressed me. It come to a lawsuit, an' I—was ruined."