strangers would have guessed that he was one of the best riders in that
part of the State.

Luck bought a couple of good cigars, threw away his cigarette and lighted
one, set the knuckles of his left hand upon his hip, and sauntered over
to the pool table where the two men he wanted to meet were languidly
playing out their third string. He watched them for a few minutes, smiled
sympathetically when Andy Green made a scratch and swore over it, and
backed out of the way of the Native Son, who sprawled himself over the
table corner and did not seem to know or to care how far the end of his
cue reached behind him.

Luck did not say a word to either; but Andy, noting the smile of
sympathy, gave him a keenly attentive glance as he came up to that end of
the table to empty a corner pocket. He fished out the four and the nine,
juggled them absently in his hand, and turned and looked at Luck again,
straight and close. Luck once more smiled his smile.

"No, I don't believe you know me, brother," he said, answering Andy's
unspoken thought. "I'd have remembered you if I'd ever met you. You may
have seen me in a picture somewhere."

"By gracious, are you the little fellow that drove a stage coach and six
horses down off a grade--"

"That's my number, old-timer." Luck's smile widened to a grin. That had
been a hair-lifting scene, and Andy Green was not the first stranger to
walk up and ask him if he had driven that stage coach and six horses down
off a mountain grade into a wide gulch to avoid being held up and the
regulation box of gold stolen. It was probably the most spectacular thing