Poleon was not too absorbed in his own fortunes to fail to notice the extraordinary ferocity and exhilaration of the saloon-keeper, nor that his face was keener, his nostrils thinner, his walk more nervous, and his voice more cutting than usual when he spoke to Runnion.
"Come here." "I'll be with you when I finish this hand," said the player, over his shoulder.
"Come here!" Stark snapped his command, and Runnion threw down his cards.
"I'm right in the middle of a winning streak.

You'll break my luck, Ben." But the other only frowned impatiently, and, drawing the reluctant gambler aside, began to talk rapidly to him, almost within ear-shot of Poleon, who watched them, idly wondering what Stark had to say that could make Runnion start and act so queerly.

Well, it was their affair.
They made a bad pair to draw to.

He knew that Runnion was the saloon-keeper's lieutenant and obeyed implicitly his senior's commands.
He could distinguish nothing they said, nor was he at all curious until a knot of noisy men crowded up to the bar, and, forcing the two back nearer to the table where he sat, his sharp ears caught these words from Runnion's lips: "Not with me! She'd never go with me!" and Stark's reply: "She'll go where I send her, and with anybody I tell her to." The Frenchman lost what followed, for a newly dealt hand required study.

He scanned his cards, and tossed them face up before the dealer; then he overheard Runnion say: "It's the only one in camp.