“Hanks won’t last three rounds.”
“What have you got that says so besides your mouth?”
“I’ve got good horse sense.”
“But no rino. Back your talk—back it up!”
“Where’s your money?”
“Here—right here.”
The speaker flourished a “roll.”
This talk did not seem to attract much attention, for everybody seemed talking in a similar manner. One man was pounding on the bar. He had a huge red nose and a diamond in his shirt bosom that was as large as an acorn.
“I’m Ned Carter of Kansas City!” he cried. “I reckon you gents know me! If any of you has money to throw away just back the Maverick. That steer will get branded deep to-night.”
“And I’m Col. McGraw of Topeka!” roared a tall man, who wore a slouch hat thrust far back on his head, and whose drooping mustache and long imperial were iron-gray. “I don’t give a dern whether you gents know me or not; but I’ll bet a cool thousand even that the Maverick will put the Sucker to sleep inside of fifteen rounds if he’s given a square deal.”