“Yes, that’s him.”
Did you, Hank? I couldn’t say no, ’cause I didn’t know, and it makes it
a lot better when you’ve got mutual friends. When was you over in Smoky
Springs, Hank?
Devil Creek is a queer sort of a _hombre_. He don’t have much to say,
but he don’t miss much of what’s going on around here. I don’t mean
here, Hank, but over in Mesquite. He drifts into Mesquite on a pinto
bronc, and me and him gets friendly.
Uncle Gabe stops using guards on the stage, ’cause they were an extra
expense, and he said that, if we ain’t got no shotgunman aboard, nobody
will think we’re carrying anything worth much, like seed catalogs. There
has been a lot of holding up going on around this neck of the woods, and
all the time I’m afraid I’ll get held up next.
One morning I’m due to go out, and uncle is in a big hurry to go over to
see a feller on the forks of Gila Creek. When he pulled out on his
bronc, me and Devil Creek went up to the Three Star saloon, while the
horses finished breakfast.
Hank, you’ve played Black Jack, ain’t you? I laid down four-bits in the
game. I got a ace and a jack, which is a “natural,” and then I let the
dollar ride. I got a six and a five and drawed a ten and won again.
Hank, I know I can bust any old game if I stop to figure out plays, but
I can’t spare the time; so I says—
“I reckon I’ve got to go.”