"Me eat," he grinned. "By an' by have drinks all 'round"—he waved his hands as though to embrace the whole Polack quarter—"den we comes—rise hell—do him goods by midnight."
P. Walton halted in the doorway.
"Who put you up to this, Peloff?" he inquired casually.
"Cowboys," grinned Peloff, lunging at the sheep's head. "Plenty drink. Say have fun."
"The cowboys, eh?" observed P. Walton. "So they're in town, are they—and looking for fun?"
"We fix him goods by midnight," repeated Ivan Peloff, wagging his head; then, with a sudden scowl: "You not tell—eh, Meester Walton?"
P. Walton smiled disinterestedly—but there wasn't any doubt in P. Walton's mind that devilment was in the wind—Big Cloud, in the early days, knew its full share of that.
"I?" said P. Walton quietly, as he went out. "No; I won't tell. It's no business of mine, is it?"
It was fall, and already dark. P. Walton made his way out of the Polack quarters, reached the tracks, crossed them—and then headed out through the fields to circle around the town to the upper end again, where it dwindled away from cross streets to the houses flanking on Main Street alone.
"I guess," he coughed—and smiled, "I won't postpone it till to-morrow night, after all."