“Then why didn't you let me take the gurl back home?”
“Wal, come to think of thet, Jim, I'm sore, an' I need money—an' I knowed you'd never take a dollar from her sister. An' I've made up my mind to git somethin' out of her.”
“Snake, you're no fool. How 'll you do thet same an' do it quick?”
“'Ain't reckoned it out yet.”
“Wal, you got aboot to-morrer an' thet's all,” returned Wilson, gloomily.
“Jim, what's ailin' you?”
“I'll let you figger thet out.”
“Wal, somethin' ails the whole gang,” declared Anson, savagely. “With them it's nothin' to eat—no whisky—no money to bet with—no tobacco!... But thet's not what's ailin' you, Jim Wilson, nor me!”
“Wal, what is, then?” queried Wilson.
“With me it's a strange feelin' thet my day's over on these ranges. I can't explain, but it jest feels so. Somethin' in the air. I don't like them dark shadows out there under the spruces. Savvy?... An' as fer you, Jim—wal, you allus was half decent, an' my gang's got too lowdown fer you.”