"Kings up!" exclaimed Clayton. "Why, say—you bet th' worst of anybody I ever knew! You 'll balk on bettin' two bits on threes, and plunge on a bluff. I reckoned you did n't have nothin'. Why ain't you more consistent?" he asked, winking at Towne.
"Gonsisdency iss no chewel in dis game—it means go broke," placidly grunted Schultz, raking in his winnings.
His friend Schneider smiled.
"Coyotes are gettin' too numerous, this year," Baxter remarked, shuffling.
Youbet pushed his sombrero back on his head. "They don't get numerous on a cow range," he said significantly.
"Huh!" snorted Baxter. "They've got too much respect to stay on one longer than they 've got to."
"They'd ruther be with their woolly-coated cousins," rejoined the cowman quietly. It was beneath his dignity as a cowman to pay much attention to what sheepmen said, yet he could not remain silent under such a remark.
He regarded sheep herders, those human beings who walked at their work, as men who had reached the lowest rung in the ladder of human endeavors. His belief was not original with him, but was that of many of his school. He was a horseman, a mounted man, and one of the aristocracy of the range; they were, to him, the rabble, and almost beneath his contempt.
Besides, it was commonly believed by cowmen that sheep destroyed the grass as far as cattle grazing was concerned—and this was the chief reason for the animosity against sheep and their herders, which burned so strongly in the hearts of cattle owners and their outfits.
Youbet drained his glass, and continued: "The coyote leaves th' cattle range for th' same good reason yore sheep leave it—because they are chased out, or killed. Naturally, blood kin will hang together in banishment."