“Your Mister Gard. That rule of yours has got to work both ways, and my name is Gabriel.”
There was a twinkle in the brown eyes; but Gard’s tone was inflexible.
“Gabriel!” gasped Sandy. “Lord! How do you git off at it? Gabriel”; he repeated, “Shoot me if I can git a rope over that.”
“Glory be!” A gleam of fun crossed his anxious face. “That name’s too long for every day,” he said, “But I can fix it: I’ll call you Angel, if you like. Angel Gabriel. That’s great! That’s how we’ll fix it. Angel on week-days; Gabriel on Sundays, an’ Angel Gabriel on Fourth o’ Julys, an’ when I’m drunk. Angel Gabriel’s a first rate name fer a amachoor sin-buster to sport.”
“You’ll drop that, too.” Gard seized one of the cushions Helen had supplied his chair with, and hurled it at the cow-puncher. “Don’t you go making fun of my name when I’m down,” he cried. “Sandy, you’ve got to call me Gard.”
He held out his hand and Sandy grasped it, cordially.
“I like you, Gard,” said he, with quick seriousness. “We’re partners for fair if you say so. If you need friends, as I expressed a while back, you’ll know where to look fer one of ’em; you won’t fergit it?”
“Never,” Gard said, heartily, and Sandy drew back. The others were coming up from the corrals.
“I never was hard on any man unless I thought he needed it, Gard,” remarked Sandy, looking toward them. “But that there Westcott—well I’ll be damned if I kin ‘go’ him. He can rope ’n hogtie the law, ’n brand it ten different ways while you’re lookin’ one; but I bet he ain’t always goin’ to git away on time.
“Say, Gard: he’s mighty sleek to look at, an’ women like sech; but if I thought he was likely to git a rope over our pretty filly there—damned if I wouldn’t wanter let a little daylight through ’im.”