“Chaw?”
The smaller man accepted. Turning the square over and giving each side a cursory glance, he picked off the tin tag—a tiny star—and set his jaws into an inviting corner, bending it back and forth in his endeavor to wrench off a generous mouthful. Passing it in silence back to the owner (who regaled himself also with a like quantity before returning it to his pocket), and having—with the aid of thumbnail and forefinger—snapped the shining little star at a big horse-fly that was industriously sucking blood from the roan’s back, he remarked:
“Hides is gone up.”
“That so?” exclaimed Dick, with animation; “what they worth now?”
“Dollar an’ a quarter, to a dollar an’ six bits; and three dollars for extra big ones. Manes is worth two bits a pound. What you comin’ in for?”
“Ca’tridges. Shot mine all away.”
“I c’n let you have some till you git your’n, if you want. What’s your gun—forty-five eighty-five Marlin?” asked Reddy.
“Nope—won’t do,” answered Dick; “mine’s Remington forty-ninety. Much ’bliged, though.”
“Say, Dick!” exclaimed Reddy, “them Mexicans down on the river are comin’ out to run mustangs. I saw that Black Joaquin an’ his brother yist’day, an’ told ’em if they wanted to run ’em anywheres out on our lay-out, that we wouldn’t make no kick if they’d let us in for a share. See? They think they c’n run in about a hunderd an’ fifty head, anyway. An’ they’ll furnish the manada, an’ the saddle horses, an’ all, for the whole crowd. So, I told ’em. ‘All right! go ahead, as far as me an’ my pardner are concerned.’ He says Austin’s agreed. How are you an’ Johnny? Willin’?”
“Oh, yes; I’m willin’,” answered Dick, as he jerked at the bridle-rein, disturbing the buckskin’s doze. “Well, good luck to you! See you again!”