"How's the crap games?" from Legs, with the usual smile.
"Nigga's will shoot craps, yu' know," grinned Moore. "I shoot a little myself when the moon's right," he winked.
"I want t' find a good game as soon as possible, and win about a hundred," said Legs, beginning to show the effects of liquor. Hatfield and Wyeth left them to their cheerful diversion, which was now, to all appearance, warming to the superlative.
The former went toward town, looking for certain friends. Wyeth went back to the place where he was going to stay, and retired. They had called up for their luggage before they went to the saloon. Wyeth was sleeping peacefully, when he was aroused by an argument on the porch. He tried to close his ears, but the same was persistent. It was between the landlady and the expressman, who had arrived with the stuff.
"That little trunk is as heavy as lead," he heard that worthy saying.
"That has nothing to do with it," from the landlady. "They left fifty cents here to pay for it, and you must have agreed to that amount, or they would have left more."
"Seventy-five cents, seventy-five cents. That little trunk is like something filled with bricks."
"My trunk," mumbled Wyeth, coming to himself, and listening to the argument. "And that sucker is trying to work her. The dirty cur!" he now cried, angry for two reasons. One for being disturbed when he was sleeping so peacefully, and another for being worked, or trying to be. With a bound he was on the floor, and in a jiffy he was in his trousers and upon the porch.
"Well, 'f' y' ain' go'n pay it, I'll haf t' take th' stuff back," the expressman said, as Wyeth came up. The other did not see him until he mounted the porch. Then he looked into his eyes which were fighting, and recoiled.
"What's this you are going to do!" he demanded, filling the doorway, and bestowing upon the other, a look that corresponded with his feelings.