“Didn’t yuh go to town?” Irish spoke as innocently as if he had not watched them well on their way from the shelter of the bluff.
Miguel deigned him one of his heavy-lidded stares. “Why should one go to town, when there are three pretty girls at the next ranch? Town didn’t hold you fellows very long.”
“I thought sure you’d gone after olives, by golly,” blurted Slim, with his mouth half full of dumpling.
“If I’d gone after them, I’d have got them,” Miguel, usually so exasperatingly calm, spoke with some feeling.
“Aw, g’wan! I betche yuh dassent go.” Happy Jack grinned arrogantly.
“You wouldn’t bet anything but words,” retorted Miguel. “There are several of you fellows that seem to be just that brand of sports.” He gave the faint shrug which they all hated.
Big Medicine laid down his knife and fork. “Say, do yuh mind naming over them several fellers?” he inquired abruptly in his booming voice. “I don’t bet words, by cripes—when I bet—”
Miguel smiled across at him blandly. “We were speaking of olives,” he purred “Happy Jack wanted to ‘betche’ I daren’t go after them. He didn’t name the stakes, though.”
“It ain’t because I ain’t willin’ to put ’em up,” glowered Happy. “I’ll betche five dollars, then—if that suits yuh any better.”
Miguel laughed, which was unusual when he was arguing with any one. “Do you mean it? Do you really think that little, weak, pretty-pretty ghost story would scare—a—nigger baby?” His voice taunted the lot of them.