But the girl had not only convinced him in this direction, she had taught him where his strength lay, and she had pointed a novel use for that strength.  He went to work instantly when he entered the big back room of the hotel which was used for cards and surreptitious drinking.  A little, patient-faced man in a corner, who had been sucking a pipe all evening and watching the crap game hungrily, was the first object of his charity.  Ten dollars slipped into the pocket of the little cowpuncher brought him out of his chair, with a grin of gratitude and bewilderment.  A moment later he was on his knees calling to the dice in a cackling voice.

Crossing the room, Cartwright picked out two more obviously stalled gamblers and gave them a new start.  Returning to the table, he found that the game was lagging.  In the first place he had from the start supplied most of the sinews of war to that game.  Also, two disgruntled members had gone broke in his absence, through trying to plunge for the spoils of the evening.  They sat back, with black faces, and watched him come.

“We’re getting down to a small game,” said the gray-headed man who was dealing.

But Cartwright had other ideas.  “A friend’s a friend,” he said jovially.  “And a gent that’s been playing beside me all evening I figure for a friend.  Sit in, boys.  I’ll stake you to a couple of rounds, eh?”

Gladly they came, astonished and exchanging glances.

Cartwright had made a sour loser all the game.  This sudden generosity took them off balance.  It let in a merciful light upon the cruel criticism which they had been leveling at him in private.  The pale man, with the blond eyelashes and the faded blue eyes, who had been dexterously stacking the cards all through the game, decided at that moment that he would not only stop cheating, but he would even lose some of his ill-gotten gains back into the game; only a sudden rush of unbelievable luck kept him from executing his generous and silent promise.

This pale-faced man was named Whitey, from the excessive blondness of his hair and his pallor.  He was not popular in Sour Creek, but he was much respected.  A proof of his ingenuity was that he had cheated at cards in that community for five years, and still he had never been caught at his work.  He was not a bold-talking man.  In fact he never started arguments or trouble of any kind; but he was a most dexterous and thoroughgoing fighter when he was cornered.  In fact he was what is widely known as a “finisher.”  And it was Whitey whom Cartwright had chosen as the leader of the mob which he intended raising.  He waited until the first shuffle was in progress after the hand, then he began his theme.

“Understand the sheriff is pretty strong for this Sinclair that murdered Quade,” he said carelessly.

“‘Murder’ is a tolerable strong word,” came back the unfriendly answer.  “Maybe it was a fair fight.”

Cartwright laughed.  “Maybe it was,” he said.