“Poker” John was apparently a man of distinction here.  Possibly the knowledge that he played a big game elicited for him a sort of indifferent respect.  Anyway, the half-breeds moved to allow him to approach the bar.

“Lablache here?” asked the rancher, eagerly.

“He is,” replied Mr. Smith, in a drawling voice, as he pushed the two whiskies across to the waiting half-breeds.  “Been here half an hour.  Jest pass right through, mister.  Maybe you’ll find him located in number two.”

There was no doubt that John B. Smith hailed from America.  Although the Canadian is not devoid of the American accent there is not much doubt of nationality when one hears the real thing.

“Good; come on, Doc.  No, thanks, Smith,” as the man behind the bar reached towards a bottle with a white seal.  “We’ll have something later on.  Number two on the right, I think you said.”

The two men passed on into the back part of the premises.

“Guess dollars’ll be flyin’ ’fore the night’s out,” said Smith, addressing any who cared to listen, and indicating “Poker” John with a jerk of the head in the direction of the door through which the two men had just passed.  “Make the banks hum when they raise the ‘bid.’  Guess ther’ ain’t many o’ ther’ likes roun’ these parts.  Rye or Scotch?” to “Lord” Bill and three other men who came up at that moment.  Mancha and “Pickles” were with him, and a fourth player—­the deposed captain of the “round-up,” Sim Lory.

“Scotch, you old heathen, of course,” replied Bill, with a tolerant laugh.  “You don’t expect us to drink fire-water.  If you kept decent Rye it would be different.  We’re going to have a flutter.  Any room?”

“Number two, I guess.  Chock-a-block in the others.  Tolerable run on poker these times.  All the round-up hands been gettin’ advances, I take it.  Say when.”

The four men said “when” in due course, and each watered his own whisky.  The proprietor went on, with a quick twinkle of his beady eyes,—­

“Ther’s Mr. Allandale an’ Lablache and company in number two.  Nobody else, I guess.  I’ve a notion you’ll find plenty of room.  Chips, no?  All right; goin’ to play a tidy game?  Good!”

The four men, having swallowed their drink, followed in the footsteps of the others.

There was something very brisk and business-like about this gambling-hell.  Early settlers doubtless remember in the days of “prohibition,” when four per cent. beer was supposed to be the only beverage of the country, and before rigid legislation, backed by the armed force of the North-West Mounted Police, swept these frightful pollutions from the fair face of the prairie, how they thrived on the encouragement of gambling and the sale of contraband spirits.  The West is a cleaner country now, thanks to the untiring efforts of the police.

In number two “Poker” John and his companions were already getting to work when Bill and his friends entered.  Beyond a casual remark they seemed to take little notice of each other.  One and all were eager to begin the play.