"What of it?" asked Stevens, the tall man, with his mouth full of Black Jack's boiled potatoes.
"But she's a pretty girl."
Murphy, the fat jolly one, carefully removed his butter and soda biscuits, of which the visible supply seemed limited, beyond Frank's reach, and ventured a glance.
"She is pretty," he agreed, firmly thwarting the little man's attempt to steal the butter in spite of his precautions.
He turned to Dan Barker and resumed a labored discussion of the country's game and fishing. The tall man took up his conversation with Billy.
"Yes," said he, "I go through that every morning. I find it invaluable. It keeps me as hard as nails. Feel there!"
He doubled his arm, and Billy placed his huge fingers gingerly over the Easterner's biceps. Down the long table the miners and prospectors ate uneasily, with frequent glances toward the noisy strangers, exchanging rare low-voiced comments, and twisting their feet. Between Molly and the man whom the others called Frank there sprang up an incipient flirtation of glances.
After dinner everybody went outside into the open air, where the gathering relaxed its formality and men breathed mere freely. Murphy conversed with several on the subject of Colt's forty-fives. He expressed a desire for a shooting match, to which end he borrowed Billy's six-shooter, and handled it so recklessly that everybody wanted to duck.
Finally he planted the muzzle firmly between his fat legs, rested both hands on the butt, and looked about him triumphantly.
"What'll I hit?" he asked.