Smoke finished tossing the dried salmon, one to each dog, and shook his head.
“I tell you yes,” Shorty argued. “Smoke, it's a sure hunch. Something's goin' to happen before the day is out. You'll see. And them dried fish'll have a bearin'.”
“You've got to show me,” said Smoke.
“No, I ain't. The day'll take care of itself an' show you. Now listen to what I'm tellin' you. I got a hunch myself out of your hunch. I'll bet eleven ounces against three ornery toothpicks I'm right. When I get a hunch I ain't a-scared to ride it.”
“You bet the toothpicks, and I'll bet the ounces,” Smoke returned.
“Nope. That'd be plain robbery. I win. I know a hunch when it tickles me. Before the day's out somethin' 'll happen, an' them fish'll have a meanin'.”
“Hell,” said Smoke, dismissing the discussion contemptuously.
“An' it'll be hell,” Shorty came back. “An' I'll take three more toothpicks with you on them same odds that it'll be sure-enough hell.”
“Done,” said Smoke.
“I win,” Shorty exulted. “Chicken-feather toothpicks for mine.”