empty.

"Every now and then I win a little one," the dealer intoned,
gravely pocketing his winnings. "It only goes to show you that the
hand--"

"Damnation!" exploded the man at Phillips' side. "Trimmed for
three hundred, or I'm a goat!"

As Pierce walked away some one fell into step with him; it was the
sullen, black-browed individual he had seen at the trading-post.

"So they took you for a hundred and thirty-five, eh? You must be
rolling in coin," the man observed.

Even yet Pierce was more than a little dazed. "Do you know," said
he, "I was sure I had the right shell."

"Why, of course you had the right one." The stranger laughed
shortly. "They laid it up for you on purpose, then Kid Bridges
worked a shift when he held your hand. You can't beat 'em."

Pierce halted. "Was he--was THAT fellow with the pack a booster?"

"Certainly. They're all boosters. The Kid carries enough hay on
his back to feed a team. It's his bed. I've been here a week and I
know 'em." The speaker stared in surprise at Phillips, who had
broken into a hearty laugh. "Look here! A little hundred and
thirty-five must be chicken feed to you. If you've got any more to
toss away, toss it in my direction."