“Five—five hundred plunks!” gurgled Ling. “Why, you never saw so much money in your life. I doubt if you have five cents in your dirty clothes.”
Then Crowfoot dug up a huge leather sack, which clinked significantly and seemed to be stuffed to overflowing. Pulling the strings of this pouch, the redskin showed that it was filled with gold and silver coins.
“How much you bet?” he again demanded.
“Why—why,” spluttered Ling, aghast, “where did you get it?”
“None your blame business,” was the answer. “You go five hundred dol’ on Outlaw men?”
“Five hundred dollars! Why, no, indeed!”
“How much you bet?” again came the question; “one hundred dol’?”
“No, indeed! I—I’d like to make a little wager just to—just to have it interesting. I’ll bet—oh—er—about five dollars.”
With a grunt of unspeakable disgust, Crowfoot yanked at the bag strings, closing the sack, which he again stowed away upon his person.
“Five dol’!” he sneered. “You big piker. You tin horn bluffer. You make heap much loud chin. Old Joe no waste time to bet little candy money with dude.”