the newcomer eagerly. "Hello, Alvin Potts! What brought you here? And
how is all at Monterey?"

"All's well enough," said Potts, concisely. He glanced about. Several
crude structures, scarcely deserving the name of tables, were centers of
interest for rings of rough and ill-assorted men. There were
loud-voiced, bearded fellows from the whaler's crew. In tarpaulins and
caps pulled low upon their brows; swarthy Russians with oily, brutish
faces and slow movements--relics of the abandoned colony at Fort Ross;
suave, soft-spoken Spaniards in broad-brimmed hats, braided short coats
and laced trousers tucked into shining boots; vaqueros with colored
handkerchiefs about their heads and sashes around their middles. A few
Americans were sprinkled here and there. Usually one player at each
table was of the sleek and graceful type, which marks the gambler. And
usually he was the winner. Now and then a man threw down his cards,
pushed a little pile of money to the center of the table and shuffled
out. Cooper passed between them, serving tall, black bottles from which
men poured their potions according to impulse; they did not drink in
unison. Each player snatched a liquid stimulus when the need arose. And
one whose shaky nerves required many of these spurs was young Benito.

Potts observed the pale face and the hectic, burning eyes with a
frowning disapproval. Presently he drew John Cooper to one side.

"He's no business here, that lad ... you know it, Jack," Potts said,
accusingly. The saloon keeper threw wide his arms in a significant
gesture.

"He won't stay away ... I've told him half a dozen times. No one can
reason with that headstrong fool."