“Seems to me, Tresler, you’re kind o’ takin’ a heap o’ chances—mostly onnes’ary. Meanin’ ther’ ain’t no more reason to it than whistlin’ Methody hymns to a deaf mule. Can’t see why you’re mussin’ y’self up wi’ these all-fired hoss thieves. You’re askin’ fer a sight more’n you ken eat.”
“And, like all men of such condition, I shall probably eat to repletion, I suppose you mean.”
Arizona turned a doubtful eye on the speaker, and quietly spat over his horse’s shoulder.
“Guess your langwidge ain’t mine,” he said thoughtfully; “but if you’re meanin’ you’re goin’ to git your belly full, I calc’late you’re li’ble to git like a crop-bound rooster wi’ the moult ’fore you’re through. An’ I sez, why?”
Tresler shrugged. “Why does a man do anything?” he asked indifferently.
“Gener’ly fer one of two reasons. Guess it’s drink or wimmin.” Again he shot a speculating glance at his friend, and, as Tresler displayed more interest in the distant view than in his remarks, he went on. “I ain’t heerd tell as you wus death on the bottle.”
The object of his solicitude smiled round on him.
“Perhaps you think me a fool. But I just can’t stand by seeing things going wrong in a way that threatens to swamp one poor, lonely girl, whose only protection is her blind father.”
“Then it is wimmin?”