The Texan | Page 4

figgerin' how to get the western hemisphere of North America back

from us.
"It's like this. Me an' you'll stop in an' get us a couple of drinks. Then
we'll hunt us up a hash-house an' put a big bate of ham an' aigs out of
circulation, an' go get us a couple more drinks, an' heel ourselves with a
deck of cards an' a couple bottles of cactus juice, an' hunt us up a place
where we'll be ondisturbed by the riotorious carryin's-on of the
frivolous-minded, an' we'll have us a two-handed poker game which no
matter who wins we can't lose, like I was tellin' you, 'cause they can't
no outside parties horn in on the profits. But first-off we'll hunt up a
feed barn so Ace of Spades can load up on oats an' hay while we're
havin' our party."
An hour later the Texan deposited a quart bottle, a rack of chips, and a
deck of cards on a little deal table in the dingy back room of a saloon.
"I tell you, Pedro, they's a whole lot of fancy trimmin's this room ain't
got, but it's quiet an' peaceable an' it'll suit our purpose to a gnat's hind
leg." He dropped into a chair and reached for the rack of chips.
"It's a habit of mine to set facin' the door," he continued, as he
proceeded to remove the disks and arrange them into stacks. "So if you
got any choist just set down acrost the table there an' we'll start the
festivities. I'll bank the game an' we'll take out a fifty-dollar stack an'
play table stakes." He shoved three stacks of chips across the table.
"Just come acrost with fifty bucks so's we c'n keep the bank straight an'
go ahead an' deal. An' while you're a-doin' it, bein' as you're a pretty
good Greaser, I'll just take a drink to you----"
"Greasaire, non! Me, A'm hate de damn Greasaire!"
The cowpuncher paused with the bottle half way to his lips and
scrutinized the other: "I thought you was a little off colour an' talked
kind of funny. What be you?"
"Me, A'm Blood breed. Ma fader she French. Ma moder she Blood
Injun. A'm leeve een Montan' som'tam'--som'tam' een Canada. A'm no
lak dees contrie! Too mooch hot. Too mooch Greasaire! Too mooch

sheep. A'm lak I go back hom'. A'm ride for T. U. las' fall an' A'm talk
to round-up cook, Walt Keeng, hees nam', an' he com' from Areezoon'.
She no like Montan'. She say Areezoon' she bettaire--no fence--beeg
range--plent' cattle. You goin' down dere an' git job you see de good
contrie. You no com' back Nort' no more. So A'm goin' down w'en de
col' wedder com' an' A'm git de job wit' ol' man Fisher on, w'at you call
Yuma bench--_Sacré_!" The half-breed paused and wiped his face.
"Didn't you like it down Yuma Way?" Benton smiled.
"Lak it! Voila! No wataire! No snow! Too mooch, w'at you call, de
leezard! Een de wintaire, A'm so Godamn hot A'm lak for die. Non!
A'm com' way from dere. A'm goin' Nort' an' git me nodder job w'ere
A'm git som' wataire som'tam'. Mebbe so git too mooch col' in wintaire,
but, voila! Better A'm lak I freeze l'il bit as burn oop!"
The Texan laughed. "I don't blame you none. I never be'n down to
Yuma but they tell me it's hell on wheels. Go ahead an' deal, Pedro."
"Pedro, non! Ma moder she nam' Moon Eye, an' ma fader she
Cross-Cut Lajune. Derefor', A'm Batiste Xavier Jean Jacques de
Beaumont Lajune."
The bottle thumped upon the table top.
"What the hell is that, a name or a song?"
"Me, das ma nam'--A'm call Batiste Xavier Jean----"
"Hold on there! If your ma or pa, or whichever one done the namin'
didn't have no expurgated dictionary handy mebbe they ain't to
blame--but from now on, between you an' me, you're Bat. That's name
enough, an' the John Jack Judas Iscariot an' General Jackson part goes
in the discards. An' bein' as this here is only a two-handed game, the
discards is dead---- See?"
At the end of an hour the half-breed watched with a grin as the Texan
raked in a huge pile of chips.

"Dat de las'," he said, "Me, A'm broke."
"Broke!" exclaimed the cowpuncher, "you don't mean you've done lost
all that there six hundred an' forty-eight bucks?" He counted the little
piles of silver and gold, which the half-breed had shoved across the
board in return for stack after stack of chips.
"Six-forty-two," he totalled. "Let's see, supper was a dollar an' four bits,
drinks two dollars, an' two dollars for this bottle of prune-juice that's
about gone already, an'--Hey, Bat, you're four bits shy!