“I thought I was great at poker by the way I gathered in the beaver-skins at the Rendezvous, but here the slick devils beat me without half trying.  When they’d slap down a bully pair, they’d screech and laugh worse than trappers on a spree.

“Says one, ’Mr. Hatcher, I reckon you’re a hoss at poker away in your country, but you can’t shine down here—­you ain’t nowhere.  That fellow looking at us through the bars was a preacher up in the world.  When we first got him, he was all-fired hot and thirsty.  We would dip our fingers in water, and let it run in his mouth, to get him to teach us the best tricks—­he’s a trump; he would stand and stamp the hot coals, and dance up and down while he told his experience.  Whoop-ee! how he would laugh!  He has delivered two long sermons of a Sunday, and played poker at night of five-cent antes, with the deacons, for the money bagged that day; and when he was in debt he exhorted the congregation to give more for the poor heathen in a foreign land, a-dying and losing their souls for the want of a little money to send them a gospel preacher—­that the poor heathen would be damned to eternal fire if they didn’t make up the dough.  The gentleman that showed you around—­old Sate, we call him—­had his eyes on the preacher for a long time.  When we got him, we had a barrel of liquor and carried him around on our shoulders, until tired of the fun, and threw him in the furnace yonder.  We call him “Poke,” for that was his favourite game.  Oh, Poke,’ shouted my friend, ’come here; here’s a gentleman who wants to see you—­we’ll give you five drops of water, and that’s more than your old skin’s worth.’

“He came close, and though his face was poor, and all scratched, and his hair singed mighty nigh off, make meat of this hoss, if it wasn’t old Cormon, that used to preach in the Wapakonnetta settlement!  Many a time he’s made my hair stand on end when he preached about the other world.  He came closer, and I could see the chains tied on his wrists, where they had worn to the bone.  He looked a darned sight worse than if the Comanches had scalped him.

“‘Hello! old coon,’ said I, ’we’re both in that awful place you talked so much about; but I ain’t so bad off as you yet.  This young gentleman,’ pointing to the devil who told me of his doings—­’this gentleman has been telling me how you took the money you made us throw in on Sunday.’

“‘Yes,’ said he, ’if I had only acted as I told others to do, I would not have been scorching here for ever and ever—­water! water!  John, my son, for my sake, a little water.’

“Just then a little rascal stuck a hot iron into him, and off he ran in the flames, ‘cacheing’ on the cool side of a big chunk of fire, a-looking at us for water; but I cared no more for him than the Pawnee whose scalp was tucked in my belt for stealing my horses on Coon Creek; and I said:—­

“’This hoss doesn’t care a cuss for you; you’re a sneaking hypocrite; you deserve all you’ve got and more too—­and look here, old boy, it’s me that says so.’