the part of "Zeke."

Johnson did not reply until after three or four rounds of the cards.
"Zeke told you a lot of things that hour you sat with him alone," he
rejoined, with broad sarcasm. "Zeke must like you!"

"Mebbe," agreed Glover, accepting the remark with all seriousness. "He
says as how Fort Wingate is out, and I remarks that sich a move about
terminates the performance. He agrees with me--says fust squint them
renegades gits at regular troops they'll hunt gopher-holes as places o'
ginerous salvation."

The others remained silent. The game was going decidedly against Jim. It
had gone against him from the first--as he had known it would. Yet he
continued to play, watchful of his opponent, keen to note any
irregularities. Yet he had discovered nothing that might be interpreted
as cheating. Still he was losing, and still, despite all beliefs to the
contrary, he entertained hope, hope that he might win. If he did win, he
told himself, Johnson was enough of a white man to accept the defeat and
leave the horse where he was. Yet his chips were steadily dwindling; the
cards persistently refused to come his way; only once thus far had he
held a winning hand. But he played on, becoming ever more discouraged,
until, suddenly awaking to an unexpectedly good hand, he opened the pot.
The raises followed back and forth swiftly, but he lost again. And now
Johnson, as he mechanically drew the chips toward him, broke the
silence.

"Zeke got you all worked up, didn't he?" he declared, turning his eyes
upon Glover. "As for renegades," he went on, beginning to deal the cards
again, "I've knowed 'em--hull droves of 'em--to stampede on the whistle
of a rattler." Evidently he was returning to good humor.

Glover took his pipe from his mouth. "Renegades gits stirred up every
jest so often," he observed. "I s'pose it's because of the way they feel
about things. Being run offen the reservations thataway ain't nowise
pleasant, to begin with, and then havin' to hang around the aidges for
what grub their folks sees fit for to sneak out to 'em ought to make it
jest that much more monotonous--kind of. Reckon I'd break out
myself--like a man that eats pancakes a lot--under sich circumstances.
Zeke says this band--the latest gang to git sore--is a-headin' dead
south. Talks like we might run agin trouble down there. More'n one
brand, too--the police and the reg'lars all bein' out thataway. They're
all out--Zeke says."

The others were absor