"God! I knew it! How much have you got there?" he continued, in a quick
whisper, pointing to Jeff's winnings.

"Five hundred dollars."

"I'll give you double if you'll get up and quit the board!"

"Why?" asked Jeff haughtily.

"Why?" repeated the man fiercely; "why? Well, your father shot himself
thar, where you're sittin', at this table;" and he added, with a
half-forced, half-hysterical laugh, "HE'S PLAYIN' AT ME OVER YOUR
SHOULDERS!"

Jeff lifted a face as colorless as the gambler's own, went back to his
seat, and placed his entire gains on a single card. The gambler looked
at him nervously, but dealt. There was a pause, a slight movement where
Jeff stood, and then a simultaneous cry from the players as they turned
towards him. But his seat was vacant. "Run after him! Call him back!
HE'S WON AGAIN!" But he had vanished utterly.

HOW he left, or what indeed followed, he never clearly remembered. His
movements must have been automatic, for when, two hours later, he found
himself at the "Pioneer" coach office, with his carpet-bag and blankets
by his side, he could not recall how or why he had come! He had a dumb
impression that he had barely escaped some dire calamity,--rather that
he had only temporarily averted it,--and that he was still in the shadow
of some impending catastrophe of destiny. He must go somewhere, he must
do something to be saved! He had no money, he had no friends; even Yuba
Bill had been transferred to another route, miles away. Yet, in