The outlaw looked over his shoulder with a twisted grin. "Sure," he said—"when they make it interesting. But no piker stuff!"
"What do you call piker stuff?"
"Slipping 'em off for dimes." Crill fixed the officer with his beady glance. "How much you got on you?"
Dexter shook his head depreciatingly. Money was of no use to a man in the wilderness, and when he had ridden out from Crooked Forks on long patrol, nearly a year ago, he carried in his pocket only a few dollars in cash that had been left from his last August's pay.
He produced two small bills, and at sight of the numerals Crill laughed raucously. "You don't think I'm going to fool around any with crockery marbles, do you?" he jeered. He started to turn away, but checked himself instantly, and faced the corporal with a sobered expression. "At that," he added, "you've got something I could use," he added. "If you want to get away from the little boy stuff, maybe we can talk."
"Yes?" said the corporal, a little puzzled. "What have I got?"
"Me!"
"What?"
"You get me." Crill's thick lips parted in a crafty smile. "I got three thousand in gold in my belt, and ten coarse notes that bring the total to fifteen grand. That's something for you to shoot at. And all you got to put up is something that don't cost you anything."
"Let's get this straight," said Dexter, his eyes narrowing. "You wish to play cards with me, you putting up money, I staking—your freedom?"