full of springs as a watch; faro decks were
carefully cut "strippers." An average good dealer would shuffle and
arrange as he liked the favorite cards of known high-rollers. These
had been neatly split on either edge and a minute bit of bristle pasted
in, which no ordinary touch would feel, but which the sand-papered
finger tips of an expert dealer would catch and slip through on the
shuffle and place where they would do (the house) the most good. The
"tin horns" gave out few but false notes; the roulette balls were
kicked silly out of the boxes representing heavily played numbers. Not
content with the "Kitty's" rake-off, every stud poker table had one or
more "cappers" sitting in, to whom the dealers could occasionally throw
a stiff pot. The backs of poker decks were so cunningly marked that
while the wise ones could read their size and suit across the table, no
untaught eye could detect their guile. And wherever a notable roll was
once flashed, greedy eyes never left it until it was safe in the till
of some game, or its owner "rolled" and relieved of it by force.

For months orgy ran riot and the predatory band grew bolder and cruder
in their methods. Killings were frequent. Few nights passed without
more or less street hold-ups--usually more. Respectable citizens took
the middle of the street, literally gun in hand, when forced to be out
of nights. The Mayor and City Council were powerless. City marshals
and deputies they hired in bunches, but all to no purpose. Each fresh
lot of appointees were short-lived, literally or officially--mostly
literally. Finally, a vigilance committee was formed, made up of good
citizens not a few of whom were gun experts with their own bit of red
record. But nothing came of it. The predatories openly flouted and
defied them.

On one notable night when the committee were assembled in front of the
old Grand Central Hotel, a mob of two hundred toughs lined up before
the thirty-odd of the committee and dared them to open the ball; and it
was a miracle the little Plaza was not then and there turned into a
slaughter pen bloody as the Alamo. It really looked as if nothing
short of martial law and a strong body of troops could pacify the town.

But one night, into the chamber of the City Council stalked a man, the
man of the hour, unheralded and unknown. He gave the name of Bill
Stoudenmayer. About all that was ever learned of him was that he
hailed from Fort Davis. His typ