“Certainly,” replied the gambler.

“Naw.  We gotta nough,” said the sallow man, and he glanced from Neale to the gambler as if he suspected them.  Gamblers often worked in pairs.

“I just came to Benton,” added Neale, reading the man’s thought.  “I never saw the gentleman in black before.”

“What th’ hell!” rumbled Mull, grabbing up his cards.

Fresno leered.

The gambler leaned back and his swift white hands flashed.  Neale believed he had a derringer up each sleeve.  A wrong word now would precipitate a fight.

“Excuse me,” said Neale, hastily.  “I don’t want to make trouble.  I just said I never saw this gentleman before.”

“Nor I him,” returned the gambler, courteously.  “My name is Place Hough and my word is not doubted.”

Neale had heard of this famous Mississippi River gambler.  So, evidently, had the other three players.  The game proceeded, and when it came to Hough’s deal Mull bet hard and lost all.  His big, hairy hands shook.  He looked at Fresno and the other fellow, but not at Hough.

“I’m broke,” he said, gruffly, and got up from the bench.

He strode past Hough, and behind him; then as if suddenly, instinctively, answering to fury, he whipped out a gun.

Neale, just as instinctively, grasped the rising hand.

“Hold on, there!” he called.  “Would you shoot a man in the back?”

And Neale, whose grip was powerful, caused the other to drop the gun.  Neale kicked it aside.  Fresno got up.

“Whar’s your head, Mull?” he growled.  “Git out of this!”

Attention had been attracted to Mull.  Some one picked up the gun.  The sallow-faced man rose, holding out his hand for it.  Hough did not even turn around.

“I was goin’ to hold him up,” said Mull.  He glared fiercely at Neale, wrenched his hand free, and with his comrades disappeared in the crowd.

The gambler rose and shook down his sleeves.  The action convinced Neale that he had held a little gun in each hand.  “I saw him draw,” he said.  “You saved his life! ...  Nevertheless, I appreciate your action.  My name is Place Hough.  Will you drink with me?”

“Sure....  My name is Neale.”

They approached the bar and drank together.

“A railroad man, I take it?” asked Hough.

“I was.  I’m foot-loose now.”

A fleeting smile crossed the gambler’s face.  “Benton is bad enough, without you being foot-loose.”

“All these camps are tough,” replied Neale.

“I was in North Platte, Kearney, Cheyenne, and Medicine Bow during their rise,” said Hough.  “They were tough.  But they were not Benton.  And the next camp west, which will be the last—­it will be Roaring Hell.  What will be its name?”

“Why is Benton worse?” inquired Neale.

“The big work is well under way now, with a tremendous push from behind.  There are three men for every man’s work.  That lays off two men each day.  Drunk or dead.  The place is wild—­far off.  There’s gold—­hundreds of thousands of dollars in gold dumped off the trains.  Benton has had one payday.  That day was the sight of my life! ...  Then... there are women.”