Angel laughed shortly.
“I reckon you’re right, Billy; I’m sorry.”
“Sorrow won’t help me none.”
“Did yuh know Lila’s father?”
“No! I don’t know nothin’! I don’t even ’member tellin’ yuh anythin’. Ten years ago! Must ’a’ been drunk. Who’s this here Lila you’re talkin’ about, Angel?”
“Oh, go to hell!” snorted Angel, and went on toward the bar, where he met Butch Reimer and Dell Blackwell, one of Reimer’s cowboys. Butch Reimer was of medium height, with wide shoulders and a face that might well have belonged to a prize-fighter of the old bare-knuckle school. Several years previous to this time Butch had been kicked square in the face by a sharp-shod horse. There were no plastic surgeons at that time, so Butch’s face had merely healed up, leaving a crooked nose, twisted mouth, and a misplaced eyebrow, not to mention numerous indentations never intended by Nature in her most uncritical moods.
Dell Blackwell was a lithe, olive-complexioned, black-haired cowboy; inveterate gambler, bronco rider, and reputed a bad man to start trouble with.
“I just got nicked for a hundred in yore ecarte game,” growled Butch. “Drew a four and a five; but the dealer turned a natural.”
“Butch had a system,” smiled Blackwell. “Always won his first bet, yuh know; so he slapped down a hundred as a first bet. What’s new, Angel?”
“Not a damned thing, Dell.”