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! Frisk
yourself an' I'll play you a showdown for them four bits." The other
grinned and held a silver half dollar between his finger and thumb.

"_Non_! A'm ke'p dat four bit! Dat lucky four bit. A'm ponch hole in
heem an' car' heem roun' ma neck lak' de medicine bag. A'm gon' back
Nort'--me! A'm got no frien's. You de only friend A'm got. You give me
de las' four bit. You, give me de honch to play de t'irteen. A'm git
reech, an' den you mak' de bank, w'at you call, com' 'crost. Now A'm
goin' back to Montan' an' git me de job. Wat de hell!"

"Where's your outfit?" asked the Texan as he carefully stowed the money
in his pockets.

"Ha! Ma outfeet--A'm sell dat outfeet to git de money to com' back hom'.
A'm play wan leetle gam' coon can an' _voila_! A'm got no money. De
damn Greasaire she ween dat money an' A'm broke. A'm com' som'tam' on de
freight train--som'tam' walk, an' A'm git dees far. Tomor' A'm git de
freight train goin' Nort' an' som'tam' A'm git to Montan'. Eet ees ver'
far, but mebbe-so A'm git dere for fall round-up. An' Ba Goss, A'm
nevaire com' sout' no mor'. Too mooch hot! Too mooch no wataire! Too
mooch, w'at you call, de pizen boog--mebbe-so in de bed--in de pants--in
de boot--you git bite an' den you got to die! Voila! Wat de hell!"

The Texan laughed and reaching into his pocket drew out two twenty dollar
gold pieces and a ten which thudded up