.

"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--_Sacre_!" 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