“Don’t yuh believe there’s a ghost, by cripes?” Big Medicine bawled pugnaciously.
“No. Of course I don’t believe it. Neither do you.” Miguel spoke with that weary tolerance which is so hard to endure.
“I do,” Cal Emmett declared flatly. “And I’m willing to bet a horse against them fancy spurs of yours that you dassent go to-night to One Man Coulee and bring away them bottles of stuffed olives.”
“What horse?” asked Miguel, reaching for the chicken platter.
“Well—any darned horse I own!” Cal wore the open-eyed look of innocence which had helped him scare out his opponents in many a poker game. “I say to-night,” he added apologetically to the others, “because it’s going to be clear and lots uh moonlight; and it’s Sunday. But I don’t care what night he tries it. I’ll bet he won’t bring away no olives.”
“Aren’t they there?” Miguel wanted to know.
“Oh—they’re there, I guess. I’ll change the wordin’ a little. I’ll bet yuh dassent go to that shack, and go into it and stay long enough to freeze onto twelve bottles uh anything. To-night,” he added, “at mid—no, any old time between ten and one. And I’ll bet any one uh my four cayuses against your spurs.”
“It’s a go. Does the rest of my riding outfit look good to any of you fellows?” Miguel glanced around the table smilingly. “Happy, for instance—”
“I got five dollars up,” Happy Jack reminded. “But I’ll put twenty with it against your bridle.”
“That bridle’s worth fifty dollars. And my saddle cost two hundred and eighty. I’ll put them up, though, if any one wants to cover the bet.”