“I'll bet you-all he'll come back to thet tree inside of five minnits,” he offered, imperturbably.
Hereupon the outlaws did not show any laziness in their alacrity to cover Bill's money as it lay on the grass. Somebody had a watch, and they all sat down, dividing attention between the timepiece and the tree. The minutes dragged by to the accompaniment of various jocular remarks anent a fool and his money. When four and three-quarter minutes had passed a turtle-dove alighted in the cottonwood. Then ensued an impressive silence while Bill calmly pocketed the fifty dollars.
“But it hadn't the same dove!” exclaimed one outlaw, excitedly. “This 'n'is smaller, dustier, not so purple.”
Bill eyed the speaker loftily.
“Wal, you'll have to ketch the other one to prove thet. Sabe, pard? Now I'll bet any gent heah the fifty I won thet I can scare thet dove with one stone.”
No one offered to take his wager.
“Wal, then, I'll bet any of you even money thet you CAN'T scare him with one stone.”
Not proof against this chance, the outlaws made up a purse, in no wise disconcerted by Bill's contemptuous allusions to their banding together. The stone was thrown. The dove did not fly. Thereafter, in regard to that bird, Bill was unable to coax or scorn his comrades into any kind of wager.
He tried them with a multiplicity of offers, and in vain. Then he appeared at a loss for some unusual and seductive wager. Presently a little ragged Mexican boy came along the river trail, a particularly starved and poor-looking little fellow. Bill called to him and gave him a handful of silver coins. Speechless, dazed, he went his way hugging the money.
“I'll bet he drops some before he gits to the road,” declared Bill. “I'll bet he runs. Hurry, you four-flush gamblers.”