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One night as he drifted into the Palace saloon he felt impelled to take a chance with “the white marble.” That is to say, he sat in at the roulette-table and began to play small stakes.

The man who rolled the marble was young and good-looking. Kelley had seen him before and liked him. Perhaps this was the reason he played roulette instead of faro. At any rate, he played, losing steadily at first–then, suddenly, the ball began to fall his way, and before the clock pointed to ten he had several hundred dollars in winnings.

“This is my night,” he said, on meeting the eyes of the young dealer.

“Don’t crowd a winning horse,” retorted the man at the wheel; and Kelley caught something in his look which checked his play and led him to quit the game. In that glance the gambler had conveyed a friendly warning, although he said, as Kelley was going away: “Be a sport. Give the wheel another show. See me to-morrow.”

Kelley went away with a distinct feeling of friendliness toward the youngster, whose appearance was quite unlike the ordinary gambler. He seemed not merely bored, but disgusted with his trade, and Kelley said to himself: “That lad has a story to tell. He’s no ordinary robber.”

The next afternoon he met the youth on the street. “Much obliged for your tip last night. The game looked all right to me.”

“It was all right,” replied the gambler. “I didn’t mean that it was crooked. But I hate to see a good man lose his money as you were sure to do.”

“I thought you meant the wheel was ‘fixed.'”

“Oh no. It’s straight. I call a fair game. But I knew your run of luck couldn’t last and”–he hesitated a little–“I’d kinda taken a fancy to you.”

“Well, that’s funny, too,” replied Kelley. “I went over to play your machine because I kind of cottoned to you. I reckon we’re due to be friends. My name’s Kelley–Tall Ed the boys call me.”

“Mine is Morse–Fred Morse. I came out here with a grub-stake, lost it, and, being out of a job, fell into rolling the marble for a living. What are you–a miner?”

“I make a bluff at mining a leased claim up here, but I’ll admit I’m nothing but a wandering cow-puncher–a kind of mounted hobo. I have an itch to keep moving. I’ve been here a year and I’m crazy to straddle a horse and ride off into the West. I know the South and East pretty well–so the open country for me is off there where the sun goes down.” His voice had a touch of poetry in it, and the other man, though he felt the bigness of the view, said:

“I never was on a horse in my life, and I don’t like roughing it. But I like you and I wish you’d let me see something of you. Where are you living?”

“Mostly up at my mine–but I have a room down here at the Boston House. I pick up my meals anywhere.”

The young man’s voice grew hesitant. “Would you consider taking me in as a side partner? I’m lonesome where I am.”

Kelley was touched by the gambler’s tone. “No harm trying,” he said, with a smile. “We couldn’t do more than kill each other. But I warn you I’m likely any day to buy an old cayuse and pull out. I’m subject to fits like that.”

“All right–I’ll take the chance. I’m used to taking chances.”

Kelley laughed. “So am I.”

In this informal way they formed a social partnership, and the liking they mutually acknowledged deepened soon into a friendship that was close akin to fraternal love.

Within a week each knew pretty accurately the origin and history of the other, and although they had but an hour or two of an afternoon for talk, they grew to depend upon each other, strangely, and when one day Morse came into the room in unwonted excitement and said, “Ed, I want you to do something for me,” Kelley instantly replied: “All right, boy. Spit it out. What’s wanted?”