The gathering was a motley one,
picturesque in its diversity. For here had drifted not only the
stranded derelicts of a frontier civilization, but selected types
of all the turbid elements that go to make up its success.
Mexican, millionaire, and miner brushed shoulders at the
roulette-wheel. Chinaman and cow-puncher, Papago and plainsman,
tourist and tailor, bucked the tiger side by side with a
democracy found nowhere else in the world. The click of the
wheel, the monotonous call of the croupier, the murmur of many
voices in alien tongues, and the high-pitched jarring note of
boisterous laughter, were all merged in a medley of confusion as
picturesque as the scene itself.
"Business not anyways slack at the Nugget," ventured Collins, to
the bartender.
"No, I don't know as 'tis. Nearly always somethin' doing in
little old Epitaph," answered the public quencher of thirsts,
polishing the glass top of the bar with a cloth.
"Playing with the lid off back there, ain't they?" The sheriff's
nod indicated the distant faro-table.
"That's right, I guess. Only blue chips go."
"It's Wolf Leroy--that Mexican-looking fellow there," Hawkes
explained in a whisper.
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