"But if you knew that, why the deuce did you play with them?"
"You can't be too particular if you want a game," Gerald laughed.
"You do things so dam' casual out here," Chetwood complained whimsically. "Now when they tried to draw revolvers—'guns' you call them out here—I should have given them in charge."
"Too much trouble and no police force handy," said Gerald. "But I wanted to ask you about that horse you've been training for the Indians, Mackay. Are you betting on him?"
"I haven't been training him, and I don't think I'll bet. The Indians will, though."
"Tell 'em we'll take all the money they have, at evens."
"Even money against the field?"
"Exactly. You'd better take a little yourself."
But Angus refused, principally because he had no money to lose. They went down to the lobby. This was crowded. Blake French, standing on a chair, was flourishing a sheaf of bills, offering even money as his brothers had done. He had been drinking, and his remarks seemed to be directed at some certain person or persons.
Looking over the heads of the crowd, Angus saw Dorgan and Paul Sam standing together. The old Indian, bare-headed, his gray braids hanging in front of either shoulder, wearing a blanket coat, skin-tight leggins and brand-new moccasins, made an incongruous figure. The two, seeing Angus, made their way toward him.