"He is a gambler, then?"

"A thoroughbred; works between St. Louis and New Orleans. I can't just
figure out yet what he is doing up here. I asked him flat out, but he
only laughed, and he isn't the sort of man you get very friendly with,
some say he has Indian blood in him, so I dropped it. He and the Judge
seem pretty thick, and they may be playing in their rooms."

"Have you ever told the planter who the other man is?"

"What, me, told him? Well, hardly; I've got troubles enough of my own.
Beaucaire is of age, I reckon, and they tell me he is some poker player
himself. The chances are he knows Kirby better than I do; besides I've
run this river too long to interfere with my passengers. See you again
before we leave; am going up now to have a talk with the Major."

My eyes followed as he disappeared within the open gates, a squatty,
strongly-built figure, the blue smoke from his pipe circling in a cloud
above his head. Then I turned idly to gaze once again down the river,
and observe the groups loitering below. I felt but slight interest in
the conversation just exchanged, nor did the memory of it abide for
long in my mind. I had not been close enough to observe Beaucaire, or
glimpse his character, while the presence of a gambler on the boat was
no such novelty in those days as to chain my attention. Indeed, these
individuals were everywhere, a recognized institution, and, as
Thockmorton had intimated, the planter himself was fully conversant
with the game, and quite able to protect himself. Assuredly it was
none of my affair, and yet a certain curiosity caused me to observe the
movements of the two so long as they remained on deck. However, it was
but a short while before both retired to the cabin, and then my gaze