“Which, apparently, I’ve got to do,” Tresler said sharply. Then he asked, “Is it the only spare bunk?”
“No. Ther’s Thompson’s, an’ ther’s Massy’s.”
“Then what’s the object?”
“Cussedness. It’s a kind o’ delicate attention. It’s fer to git back on you, knowin’ as us fellers ’ud sure tell you of Dave. It’s to kind o’ hint to you what happens to them as runs foul o’ him. What’s like to happen to you.”
Arizona’s fists clenched, and his teeth gritted with rage as he deduced his facts. Tresler remained calm, but it did him good to listen to the hot-headed cowpuncher, and he warmed toward him.
“I’m afraid I must disappoint him,” he said, when the other had finished. “If you fellows will lend me some blankets, I’ll sleep in Massy’s or Thompson’s bunk, and Mr. Jake can go hang.”
Arizona shot round and peered into Tresler’s face. “An’ you’ll do that—sure?”
“Certainly. I’m not going to sleep in a filthy bunk.”
“Say, you’re the most cur’usest ‘tenderfoot’ I’ve seen. Shake!”
And again the two men gripped hands.