cussing, interspersed with imperative commands, which were gradually obeyed.
The Kid straightened up his wearing apparel. "Come on, yu locoed—"
"Angels?" queried Charley Lane, interrupting him. "Sweet things?" breathed Hopalong in hopeful expectancy.
"Oh, d—n it!" yelled the Kid as he ran out into the street to escape the persecution.
"Good Kid, all right," remarked Waffles. "He'll go around an' lick some Greaser an' come back sweet as honey."
"Did somebody say poker?" asked Bigfoot, digressing from the Kid.
"Oh, yu fellows don't want no poker. Of course yu don't. Poker's mighty uncertain," replied Red.
"Yah!" exclaimed Tex Le Blanc, pushing forward. "I'll just bet yu to a standstill that Waffles an' Salvation'll round up all th' festive simoleons yu can get together! An' I'll throw in Frenchy's hat as an inducement."
"Well, if yore shore set on it make her a pool," replied Red, "an' th' winners divide with their outfit. Here's a starter," he added, tossing a buckskin bag on the table. "Come on, pile 'em up."
The crowd divided as the players seated themselves at the table, the O-Bar-O crowd grouping themselves behind their representatives; the Bar—20 behind theirs. A deck of cards was brought and the game was on.
Red, true to his nature, leaned back in a corner, where, hands on hips, he awaited any hostile demonstration on the part of the O-Bar-O; then, suddenly remembering, he looked half ashamed of his warlike position and became a peaceful citizen again. Buck leaned with his broad back against the bar, talking over his shoulder to the bartender, but watching Tenspot Davis,
