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“That’s how I drifted into Rampart City, and Justus Morrow.

“This here town was the same as any new camp; a mile long and eighteen inches wide, consisting of saloons, dance-halls, saloons, trading-posts, saloons, places to get licker, and saloons. Might not have been so many dancehalls and trading-posts as I’ve mentioned, and a few more saloons.

“I dropped into a joint called The Reception, and who’d I see playing ‘bank’ but ‘Single Out’ Wilmer, the worst gambler on the river. Mounted police had him on the woodpile in Dawson, then tied a can on him. At the same table was a nice, tender Philadelphia squab, ’bout fryin’ size, and while I was watching, Wilmer pulls down a bet belonging to it. That’s an old game.

“‘Pardon me,’ says the broiler; ‘you have my checks.’

“‘What?’ growls ‘Single Out;’ ‘I knowed this game before you quit nursin’, Bright Eyes. I can protect my own bets.’

“‘That’s right,’ chimes the dealer, who I seen was ‘Curly’ Budd, Wilmer’s pardner.

“‘Lord!’ thinks I, ‘there’s a pair to draw to.’

“‘Do you really think you had ought to play this? It’s a man’s game,’ says Wilmer nasty.

“I expected to see the youngster dog it. Nothin’ of the kind.

“‘That’s my bet!’ he says again, and I noticed something dry in his voice, like the rustle of silk.

“Single Out just looks black and snarls at the dealer.

“‘Turn the cards!’

“‘Oh, very well,’ says the chechako, talking like a little girl.

“Somebody snickered and, thinks I ‘there’s sprightly doin’s hereabouts. I’ll tarry a while and see ’em singe the fowl. I like the smell of burning pin feathers; it clears my head.’

“Over in the far corner was another animal in knee panties, riggin’ up one of these flash-light, snappy-shot, photograft layouts. I found afterwards that he done it for a living; didn’t work none, just strayed around as co-respondent for an English newspaper syndicate, taking pictures and writing story things. I didn’t pay much attention to him hiding under his black cloth, ’cause the faro-table was full of bets, and it’s hard to follow the play. Well, bye-and-bye Wilmer shifted another stack belonging to the Easterner.

“The lad never begged his pardon nor nothin’. His fist just shot out and landed on the nigh corner of Wilmer’s jaw, clean and fair, and ‘Single Out’ done as pretty a headspin as I ever see–considering that it was executed in a cuspidore. ‘Twas my first insight into the amenities of football. I’d like to see a whole game of it. They say it lasts an hour and a half. Of all the cordial, why-how-do-you-do mule kicks handed down in rhyme and story, that wallop was the adopted daddy.

“When he struck, I took the end of the bar like a steeplechaser, for I seen ‘Curly’ grab at the drawer, and I have aversions to witnessing gun plays from the front end. The tenderfoot riz up in his chair, and snatchin’ a stack of reds in his off mit, dashed ’em into ‘Curly’s’ face just as he pulled trigger. It spoiled his aim, and the boy was on to him like a mountain lion, follerin’ over the table, along the line of least resistance.

“It was like takin’ a candy sucker from a baby. ‘Curly’ let go of that ‘six’ like he was plumb tired of it, and the kid welted him over the ear just oncet. Then he turned on the room; and right there my heart went out to him. He took in the line up at a sweep of his lamps:

“‘Any of you gentlemen got ideas on the subject?’ he says, and his eyes danced like waves in the sunshine.

“It was all that finished and genteel that I speaks up without thinkin’, ‘You for me pardner!’

“Just as I said it, there come a swish and flash as if a kag of black powder had changed its state of bein’. I s’pose everybody yelled and dodged except the picture man. He says, ‘Thank you, gents; very pretty tableau.’