"What did you stop us for?" asked Matt.
"Me an' Slim, thar, thought ye mout hev Hobbes aboard that thing-um-bob," went on the last speaker. "We're from the Tin Cup Ranch, us fellers are. I'm Jed Spearman, the foreman. Whar d'ye hail from?"
"From Fort Totten."
"When d'ye leave thar?"
"About two hours ago."
"Come off! Toten's a good hunnerd an' twenty miles from here."
"Well," laughed Matt, "we can travel sixty miles an hour, when we let ourselves out, and bad roads can't stop us. But tell us about this man, Hobbes. Who is he?"
"He's a tinhorn, that's what. He blowed inter the Tin Cup bunkhouse, last night, an' cleaned us all out in a leetle game o' one-call-two."
"If you're foolish enough to gamble," said Matt, "you ought to have the nerve to take the consequences."
"Gad-hook it all," spoke up the man referred to as "Slim," "I ain't puttin' up no holler when I loses fair, but this Hobbes person is that rank with his cold decks, his table hold outs, an' his extra aces, that I blushes ter think o' how we was all roped in."