It was a motley gathering, for there were returned miners, gambling away their silver and gold dust; plainsmen, back after a long trip westward; teamsters, bullwhackers, scouts, soldiers, cattlemen, a few Indians, vagabonds, and general dead beats, hanging around to be treated, and to pick up a dishonest penny when possible.
At one table were gathered some cattle herders, lately arrived from Texas, and as they were playing for large stakes, those uninterested elsewhere in the room had been drawn to the point of most interest to them.
“Pards, hasn’t I seen yer physymyhogamys before?” suddenly asked a queer-looking character, forcing his way through the crowd, and confronting the Texans, one of whom answered pleasantly:
“I think you have; you were one of the Hale emigrant train we struck on the trail.”
“You hes it right; I were ther boss teamster, but I’ll lay yer a prime pelt agin’ that pile o’ money thet yer can’t call my handle.”
A general laugh followed the remark of the borderman, and the Texan who had before spoken answered:
“I will bet you wine for all round that I can, for the money is not mine, and I guess you haven’t a pelt along with you.”
“Done; wine fer all ’ceptin’ ther dead beats.”
“But how are we to pick them out?”