This Saturday night there had been no dance, and the men at Gentleman
Jack's table at Stinson's had played "three-card monte" on through the
dawn and the sunrise, and into broad daylight. The door was pushed open,
letting in a rush of cool, sweet air which guttered the candles set in
old bottles, and drove the heavy fog of tobacco smoke toward the
blackened ceiling. A voice boomed forth:

"Come on, now, gentlemen. Two ladies have come with posies in tall
silver vases and a white altar cloth for this table. The preacher's
coming over from Folsom, and there will be church held here in one hour.
He's a busy man today. An infant will be given a license to travel the
long and uncertain road to heaven, and a pair of happy lovers will be
made one."

"One - unhappy pair."

It's William Duncan. He's intoxicated again," drawled Gentleman Jack,
stretching his graceful length and smiling at a long, aristocratic
figure crouched over a small table in a corner. "His last strike turned
out to be only a small pocket, and so he drowns his woes in liquor, as
usual." He bowed to his recent card partners. "Gentlemen, I am sincerely
sorry for your losses this night. I shall sleep an hour before the holy
man arrives. He sauntered out, stuffing a buckskin bag of gold dust into
his pocket.

"There lies my pocket - in his pocket," muttered Duncan. "No, Stinson"
raising his voice authoritatively, "I shall not go out. It is my desire
to pray for my sins today * * * and there has a letter come from
overseas which I must read - if I can. If I can - "