“There’s Smithy!” he exclaimed to the man who loafed beside him, “and he’s got a roll!”
His fellow lounger looked at him curiously.
“Tinhorn, I b’lieve you kin smell money; and I swear they’s kind of a scum comes over your eyes when you see it. How do you know he’s carryin’ a roll?”
Tinhorn Frank laughed.
“I know Smithy as well as if I had made him. I kin tell by the way he rides. I always could. When he’s broke he’s slouchy-like. He don’t take no pride in coilin’ his rope, and he jams his hat over his eyes—tough. Look at him now—settin’ square in the saddle, his rope coiled like a top Californy cowboy on a Fourth of July. That’s how I know. Hello, Smithy! Fall off and arrigate.”
“Hullo!” Smith answered deliberately.
“How’s she comin’?”
“Slow.” He swung his leg over the cantle of the saddle.
“What’ll you have?” Tinhorn slapped Smith’s back so hard that the dust rose.
“Get me out somethin’ stimulating, somethin’ fur-reachin’, somethin’ that you can tell where it stops. I want a drink that feels like a yard of barb-wire goin’ down.” Smith was tying his horse.