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HIGH PLAY 11

modest way for his clever trigger finger, and Corey had killed more than one man in the long life that had silvered his thick hair and given him the saintly look of a Daniel. But Corey could play, and it was worth a man's time to watch his benignant face when he held three aces and a pair of queens and never a shadow flecked across it. Also it was of the same mild impassiveness when he bluffed out the pot on deuces. But Brideman, big, bearded, blond and full of laughter, was in high fettle this day and was cleaning up on all of them. He had played for sixteen hours straight on end and was fresh as at the beginning, keen as a racer. His blue eyes, set under their beetling brows, were sparkling like harbour lights, and he struck the dirty, canvas-covered table with a mighty fist from time to time as he raked in the gold before him.

At Hunnewell's store the bar, as being of first import, came first on the left as one entered the place. Beyond there ran the counter over which the wives of Santa Leandra bought their flour and sugar, their calico and ginghams by the yard. To the right there stood several tables like the one at which the men were playing, for sometimes the town was packed full of strange horses and gratifying crowds played at Hunnewell's.

Today, as the men steadily lost to Brideman, a shadow darkened the door and a girl stood there. She leaned gracefully against the lintel and smiled, her little head tilted sidewise like a bird's, her black eyes roving over every face there with a bold bright