“Well, ‘Smooth,’ as a business proposition there is something in what you say that it won’t do any harm to think about, but as a proposal of marriage it hasn’t got any more bite to it than a white pine dog with a poplar tail.”
“But you’ll think it over, Chita?” he asked, drawing a sack of Durham and a package of brown papers from his shirt pocket.
“You dropped something, ‘Smooth,’ ” she said, gesturing toward the ground at his feet. “You pulled it out of your pocket with the makings.”
He looked down at a bit of paste board, at one half of a playing card that had been torn in two—one half of the jack of spades.
Chapter Seventeen
Cheetim Strikes
IT was night. The oil lamps were burning brightly in the barroom of the Hog Ranch. The games were being well patronized. The girls were circulating among the customers, registering thirst. It looked like a large night.
In the back room two men, seated at opposite sides of a table, were conversing in low tones. A bottle, two glasses, and a mutilated jack of spades lay between them. One of the men was Cheetim, the other was Kreff.
“How much longer does thet feller think we kin hold them critters without hevin’ every galoot in the Territory ridin’ onto ’em an’ blowin’ the whole business?” demanded Kreff.
“I been tellin’ him to see you,” said Cheetim.