“You no got swelled head nor anything?” mumbled Crowfoot.
“Keep your eye on me,” advised Buzzsaw. “I’ve got it in for that feller Merriwell. He hit me when I wasn’t looking, and I’ll hand him his pay if he ever gets round to third base. That’s my position.”
“What you do to him?”
“Spike him if I get a chance. Watch me. See him come up to third, and watch me if I get the ball. Will I tag him with it? Will I? I’ll bang it onto his muzzle and send him to the dentist’s for new teeth.”
“You got heap bad grudge,” said Crowfoot. “Much fun to see you knock-um teeth out of Merriwell feller. Old Joe he laugh when he see it. It give him big fun.”
“Let’s play poker and cut out the talk,” urged Clinker.
Crowfoot took another drink, and the game continued, with the old savage nodding and blinking over his cards. Apparently he was half doped by the liquor; yet, strange to say, try as they might, they could not seem to win a great deal of his money. He had most astonishing luck. Repeatedly Stover, who could manipulate the cards, put up a hand to win, only to have Crowfoot drop out or show down a better hand. Gradually the third baseman of the Outlaws grew ugly and resentful.
“Rotten luck!” he growled.
“Ugh!” grunted Crowfoot. “Good luck for Shangowah.”
“The old sinner is a shark at the game,” muttered Warwhoop.