"Well," fenced Matt, "that depends. You don't talk like any cowboy I ever heard—your English is too good."
"There are a lot of punchers who use better English than I do."
"Possibly," answered Matt. "I haven't been in the cattle country very much. What was the amount of money you stole from the Tin Cup outfit?"
A flush of color ran into Hobbes' tanned face.
"I didn't steal their money," he cried angrily. "I played cards for it."
"You didn't play a square game. They found the pack you used, this morning, and there were extra aces, and the backs were printed in such a way that you could tell what cards your opponents held."
"What of that?" was the scoffing response. "They didn't find me out. They had the right to beat me at my own game—if they could."
"I'm not here to preach," said Matt, "but you've got yourself into a pretty bad mix. I'm willing to help you out if you'll send back the money."
"I'll not send back a soo," was the answer, "and you've got your nerve along to bat such a proposition up to me. Who asked for your help? I didn't."
Hobbes turned away in a huff and started for the creek, his wet clothes slapping about him as he walked.