Exactly twenty minutes after young Benton dismounted from his big
rangy black before the door of a low adobe saloon that fronted upon
one of the narrow crooked streets of old Las Vegas, he glanced into
the eyes of the thin-lipped croupier and laughed. "You've got 'em.
Seventy-four good old Texas dollars." He held up a coin between his
thumb and forefinger. "I've got another one left, an' your boss is
goin' to get that, too-but he's goin' to get it in legitimate
barter an' trade." As the cowpuncher stepped to the bar that
occupied one side of the room, a group of Mexicans who had lounged
back at his entrance crowded once more about the wheel and began
noisily to place their bets. He watched them for a moment before
turning his attention to the heavy-lidded, flabby-jowled person who
leaned ponderously against the sober side of the bar. "Who owns
this joint?" he asked truculently, as he eyed with disfavour the
filthy shirt-sleeves rolled back from thick forearms, the sagging
vest, and the collarless shirt-band that buried itself in a fold of
the fat neck.
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