“Say, was you ever broke?” he asked suddenly, a trace of sadness in his voice.
The bartender glanced at him quickly, but remained judiciously silent, smelling the preamble of an attempt to “touch.”
“Well, I have been, am now, an' allus will be, more or less,” continued Fisher, in soliloquy, not waiting for an answer to his question. “Money an' me don't ride the same range, not any. Here I am fifty miles away from my ranch, with four dollars and ninety-five cents between me an' starvation an' thirst, an' me not going home for three days yet. I was going to quit the CG this month, but now I gotta go on working for it till another pay-day. I don't even own a cayuse. Now, just to show you what kind of a prickly pear I am, I'll cut the cards with you to see who owns this,” he suggested, smiling brightly at his companion.
The bartender laughed, treated on the house, and shuffled out from behind the bar with a pack of greasy playing cards. “All at once, or a dollar a shot?” he asked, shuffling deftly.
“Any way it suits you,” responded Fisher, nonchalantly. He knew how a sport should talk; and once he had cut the cards to see who should own his full month's pay. He hoped he would be more successful this time.
“Don't make no difference to me,” rejoined the bartender.
“All right; all at once, an' have it over with. It's a kid's game, at that.”
“High wins, of course?”
“High wins.”
The bartender pushed the cards across the table for his companion to cut. Nat did so, and turned up a deuce. “Oh, don't bother,” he said, sliding the four dollars and ninety-five cents across the table.