s a combination variety theater and
saloon, where free "living pictures" were posed for the entertainment of
those who drank beer at the tables at twenty-five cents a glass.

Of the living pictures there were three, all of them in green garments,
which hung loosely upon flaccid thighs. Sometimes they posed alone, as
representations of more or less clothed statuary; sometimes they
grouped, with feet thrust out, heads thrown back, arms lifted in stiff
postures, as gladiators, martyrs, and spring songs. Always, whether
living or dead, they were most sad and tattered, famished and lean
pictures, and their efforts were received with small applause. They were
too thin to be very wicked; so it appeared, at least.

Dr. Slavens stopped in the wide-spreading door of this place to watch
the shifting life within. Near him sat a young Comanche Indian, his hair
done up in two braids, which he wore over his shoulders in front. He had
an eagle feather in his hat and a new red handkerchief around his neck,
and he looked as wistful as a young Indian ever did outside a poem or a
picture-film. He was the unwelcome guest, whom no one might treat, to
whom no one might sell.

That was one of the first things strangers in Comanche learned: one must
not give an Indian a drink of liquor, no matter how thirsty he looked.
And, although there was not a saloon-keeper in the place who would have
considered a moment before stooping to rob a dead man, there was not one
who would have sold an Indian a bottle of beer. Such is the fear, if not
respect, that brave old Uncle Sam is able to inspire.

But brave old Sam had left the bars down between his wards and the
gamblers' tables. It is so everywhere. The Indian may not drink, but he
may play "army game" and all the others where crooked dice, crooked
cards, and crooked men are to be found. Perhaps, thought the doctor, the
young man with the eagle feather--which did not make him at all
invisible, whatever his own faith in its virtues might have been--had
played his money on the one-eyed man's game, and was hanging around to
see whether retributive justice, in the form of some more fortunate
player, would, in the end, clean the old rascal out.

The one-eyed man was assisted by a large gang of cappers, a gang which
appeared to be in the employ of the gamblers' trust of Comanche. The
doctor had seen them night after night first at one game, then at
another, betting with freedom and carelessness which were