Y’ know, flirtin’ was Carlota’s strong suit. And that very evenin’ I seen her talkin’ acrosst the counter to Pedro sweeter’n panocha,–with a takin’ smile on the south end of that cute little face of hern. But her eyes wasn’t smilin’–and a Spanish gal’s eyes don’t lie.
But supper was late, and Boston and me was at a table clost by,–him lookin’ ugly tempered. So ole lady Arnaz tole Carlota t’ jar loose. And pretty soon we was wrastlin’ our corn-beef, and Pedro was gone.
Rawson sit down nigh us. “Cupid,” he says solemn, “reckon we won’t git to play that game of draw t’-night.” And he give my foot a kick.
“Why?” I ast.
“Account of Pedro bein’ in town. I figger t’ stay clost to the bunk-house.”
“So ’ll I,” I says, and begun examinin’ my shootin’-iron mighty anxious.
“Who’s this Pedro?” ast Boston.
“Didn’t y’ see him?” I says. “He’s a greaser, and a’ awful bad cuss t’ monkey with. If you happen t’ go past him and so much as wiggle a finger, it’s like takin’ you’ life in you’ hands. Look at this.” And I showed him a piece that me and Hairoil ’d fixed up fer the last EyeOpener.
“Pedro Garcia,” it read, “was found not guilty by Judge Freeman fer perforatin’ Nick Trotmann’s sombrero in a street row last Saturday night week. Proved that Nick got into Pedro’s way and sassed him. Pedro ’d come to town consider’ble the worse fer booze and, as is allus the case–” Then they was a inch ’r two without no writin’. Under that was this: “As a matter of extreme precaution, we have lifted the last half of the above article, havin’ got word that Garcia is due in town again. Subscribers will please excuse the gap. I didn’t git no time t’ fill it in. Editor.”
“And what’s he doin’ in here?” says Boston, “–talkin’ to a young gal!”