“Wait,” grinned the bartender, who was a stickler for rules. He reached over and turned up a card, and then laughed. “Matched, by George!”
“Try again,” grinned Fisher, his face clearing with hope.
The bartender shuffled, and Fisher turned a five, which proved to be just one point shy when his companion had shown his card.
“Now,” remarked Fisher, watching his money disappear into the bartender's pocket, “I'll put up my gun agin ten of yore dollars if yo're game. How about it?”
“Done—that's a good weapon.”
“None better. Ah, a jack!”
“I say queen—nope, king!” exulted the dispenser of liquids. “Say, mebby you can get a job around here when you quit the CG,” he suggested.
“That's a good idea,” replied Fisher. “But let's finish this while we're at it. I got a good saddle outside on my cayuse—go look it over an' tell me how much you'll put up agin it. If you win it an' can't use it, you can sell it. It's first class.”
The bartender walked to the door, looked carefully around for a moment, his eyes fastening upon a trail in the sandy street. Then he laughed. “There ain't no saddle out here,” he reported, well knowing where it could be found.
“What! Has that ornery piebald—well, what do you think of that!” exclaimed Fisher, looking up and down the street. “This is the first time that ever happened to me. Why, some coyote stole it! Look at the tracks!”