Jim Nabours had played in many a game where one does not display his emotions. He set his face now, almost suppressing the dull red that took over the gray glint of his eye. The sum of nine hundred dollars was the same as nine million to him. There was not a hundred dollars, even of Mexican make, in all the convoy, and he knew that.
“Like you say, that’s little enough,” said he. “Two bits a throw ain’t worth talking over, not amongst men like us. But just for sake of friendship, let’s ride on over to our wagon and have a cup of coffee—you orto see how pore it is.”
He spoke with a finality hard to evade. The other rode alongside. A quarter of a mile, and Nabours threw up his hand. Del Williams swung away from his stand and came up at a gallop. Nabours had loosed his rope.
“Del,” said he, “this is Mr.—I dunno.”
“Jameson; Henry D. Jameson, of Austin, gentlemen.”
“And he says he’s the cattle inspector on the Red. It costs us two bits a head to cross the river, Del. It ain’t much, only nine hunderd dollars. And so——”
“Nine hun——” But Del Williams did not finish.
The rope which Jim Nabours idly had uncoiled suddenly shot out behind him with a quick side flirt. It settled fair around the neck of Henry D. Jameson, the first cattle inspector Texas ever knew. The next instant the aforesaid Henry D. Jameson was out of his saddle, his hands clawing grass as he slid along the ground, choking very rapidly. Del Williams on chance laid his own rope on the neck of the Jameson horse, which seemed a good one.
“You damn thief! You low-down, lying son of a ’niquity, you!” The wrath of Jim Nabours, smoldering a half hour, now flamed. His tongue waxed unprintable while in two composite languages of the Southwest he cursed Henry D. Jameson till his own face was as red as that of his victim was empurpled. Del Williams, gun in hand, followed close, his cue obvious.
“Git up, damn you!” at length croaked the foreman. “You stand up! You’ll charge Texas men for wetting their girths in a Texas river, will you? Pay you nine hunderd dollars? We’ll see you and all Austin in hell before we’ll pay you a damned cent. Come on now quiet, or we’ll leave you plumb quiet. Come along! It’s lucky we ain’t got no fire lit or I’d run a Fishhook on you for luck.”