"You came here to tell me. Deal the cards."
Trimmer puffed great lungfuls of the reek from his weed and took his revolver in hand.
"Opal," said he, enjoying his moment of vantage, "you done me up for a clean one thousand bucks, a year ago—while I was drunk—and I've been laying to git you ever since."
McCoppet was unmoved.
"Well, here I am."
"You bet! here you are—and here you're goin' to hang out till we fix things right!" The lumberman banged his gun barrel on the table hard enough to make a dent. "That's why Cayuse is here, too. Mrs. Cayuse is dead."
The gambler nodded coldly, and Trimmer went on.
"She kicked the bucket havin' a kid which wasn't Cayuse's—too darn white fer even him—and Cayuse is on the war trail fer that father."
McCoppet threw away his chewed cigar and replaced it with a fresh one. He nodded as before.
"Cayuse is on that I know who the father was," resumed the visitor. "I told him to come here to Goldite and I'd give up the name."