“I can jist hit my hat at that distance,” grinned Butch, “and I wear the widest thing Stetson makes.”
“And you jist shoot good enough to win my money,” laughed Blackwell.
“Somebody will kill him one of these days,” said Angel.
“Yeah—send him a bomb by express. Let’s have another.”
CHAPTER III—LILA’S DEPARTURE
Morning at the Circle Spade still found Rance McCoy humped in his chair beside the table in the old living-room. The lamp had burned dry long since, and the chimney was soot-streaked. “Chuckwalla Ike” Hazen, the old cook, was in the kitchen, wrestling with the cooking utensils. Chuckwalla Ike was as old as Rance McCoy, a weather-beaten old desert cook, crooked in the legs from riding bad horses in his youth, with his left elbow slightly out of line from stopping a bullet.
Chuckwalla wore a long, sad-looking mustache, and his head was as bald as a baseball. His nose was generous, and one cheek was habitually pouched from tobacco. He was clad in a sleeveless undershirt, overalls, and moccasins, as he peered into the living-room at Rance McCoy.
“Up kinda early ain’t yuh, Rance?” he drawled.
“I was—uh—I reckon I better put me on a shirt. Plumb forgot we’ve got a lady among us. Say, whatsa matter with yuh? Look like hell this mornin’.”
“I’m all right,” said Rance huskily.