In October, when Mother Nature has given us a surprising break in the weather, there comes to Whiskey Slide a fellow name of Vern Keeler, who is unlike anybody in camp. He’s a gambler, making no secret of it, though we could tell right off, due to how he dresses. I’d seen card sharps back in Missouri, been warned away from them by other ranch hands, but indulged one time and lost all my pay. They dress well, usually sport a black frock coat, a fancy vest over a white shirt. Such is Keeler’s attire, which wakes up all the men. Keeler is also fine-looking, tall and slim with a wicked thin mustache and flashing dark eyes. When he removes his straight-brimmed, silver-banded black hat, he reveals a head of thick black hair. My privates take note at first glance.
We’re in the saloon on a Sunday
