“Didee, Dell? Didee tell me to shud’p?”
Dell Blackwell nodded solemnly.
“I heard’m menshun’t,” said Dell. “’S far’s that’s consherned, I trail m’ bets with Slim. F’r money, marbles, ’r chalk, he c’n whip yuh on a sheepskin, Angel.”
“He couldn’t whip me no time,” declared Angel.
“Le’s go fin’ him,” suggested Boomer. “Might’s well have more fight’n lesh talk. Whatcha shay, Angel? No, don’t make fashes at me, Angel. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! You’re shore, yuh pale-fashed card-sharp. Slim swiped yore girl.”
Angel flushed crimson and his hand streaked for his gun, but Blackwell was still sober enough to clinch with him and prevent him from drawing the gun.
“Let’m loosh,” coaxed Weed. “I c’n han’le him, Dell.”
“You ought to keep yore mouth shut,” said the bartender. “Don’t start no gun-battles in here.”
“Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho!” roared Sorensen with a sudden excess of mirth. “Anchel vant somebody to holt him. He don’t try git loose.”
“You dam’ Swede!” snarled Angel impotently.