The fellow was tall and heavily built, and dressed in a more gaudy style
than that usually affected by the cowboys. Bert could not remember having
seen him among the employees of the neighboring ranches. His face bore
traces of drink and dissipation and was seamed with evil passions. There
was a lurid glow in his eyes that brought back to Bert the memory of the
men who had tried to hold up the train. He seemed naturally to fall into
that class. Instinctively Bert felt that in some way he was to be ranked
with the outcasts that war upon society. A cruel mouth showed beneath a
hawk-like nose that gave him the appearance of a bird of prey. To Bert he
seemed a living embodiment of all that he had ever heard or read of the
"bad man" of the Western frontier.
The stranger stood a little while longer at the bar. Then he strolled
over to a table where four men were playing, and watched the game with
the critical eye of an expert.
Soon one of the men kicked his chair back and rose with an oath.
"Busted," he growled. "Not a dinero left. That last hand cleaned me out.
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