. The first interest of their
entrance soon died out. The dealer at faro went on imperturbably sliding
card after card out of the case, the case-keeper fingered the buttons on
the wires of his abacus and the players shifted their chips about the
layout or nervously shuffled them between the fingers of one hand.

Sandy knew the dealer for Sim Hahn, a man whose livelihood lay in the
dexterity of his slim well-kept fingers and his ability to reckon the
bets; swiftly to drag in or pay out losings and winnings without an
error. His face was without a wrinkle, clean-shaven, every slick black
hair in place, the flesh wax-like. He held a record--whispered, not
attested--of having more than once beaten a protesting gambler to the
draw and then subscribing to the funeral. As he came to the last turn,
with three cards left in the box, he paused, waiting for bets to be
made. His eyes met Sandy's and he nodded. Three men named the order of
the last three cards. None of them guessed the right one of the six ways
in which they might have appeared. Hahn took in, paid out, shuffled the
cards for a new deal. Sam nudged Sandy, speaking out of the corner of
his mouth words that no one else could catch.

"The hombre Plimsoll's talkin' to is 'Butch' Parsons. He's the killer
Brady hired over to the M-Bar-M to chase off the nesters."

Sandy said nothing, did not move. As the play began he turned and looked
at the "killer" who had been named "Butch," after he had shot two heads
of families that had preempted land on the range that Brady claimed as
part of his holding. Whatever the justice of that claim, it was
generally understood that Butch had killed in cold blood, Brady's
political pull smothering prosecution and inquiry. Butch had a hawkish
nose and an outcurving chin. He was practically bald. Reddish eyebrows
straggled sparsely above pale blue eyes, the color of cheap graniteware.
His lips were thin and pallid, making a hard line of his mouth. He
packed a gun, well back of him, as he sat at the game. Meeting Sandy's
lightly passing gaze, Butch sent out a puff of smoke from his
half-finished cigar. The pale eyes pointed the action, it might have
been a challenge, even a covert insult. Sandy ignored it, devoting his
attention to the case-keeper.

The jacks came out early, three of them losing, showing second on the
turn. A dozen bets went down on the fourth jack to win. Sandy placed the
luck-piece on the card, reached for a "copper" marke