" He shoved three stacks of chips across the
table. "Just come acrost with fifty bucks so's we c'n keep the bank
straight an' go ahead an' deal. An' while you're a-doin' it, bein' as
you're a pretty good Greaser, I'll just take a drink to you----"
"Greasaire, _non_! Me, A'm hate de damn Greasaire!"
The cowpuncher paused with the bottle half way to his lips and
scrutinized the other: "I thought you was a little off colour an' talked
kind of funny. What be you?"
"Me, A'm Blood breed. Ma fader she French. Ma moder she Blood Injun.
A'm leeve een Montan' som'tam'--som'tam' een Canada. A'm no lak dees
contrie! Too mooch hot. Too mooch Greasaire! Too mooch sheep. A'm lak
I go back hom'. A'm ride for T. U. las' fall an' A'm talk to round-up
cook, Walt Keeng, hees nam', an' he com' from Areezoon'. She no like
Montan'. She say Areezoon' she bettaire--no fence--beeg range--plent'
cattle. You goin' down dere an' git job you see de good contrie. You no
com' back Nort' no more. So A'm goin' down w'en de col' wedder com' an'
A'm git de job wit' ol' man Fisher on, w'at you call Yuma
bench--_Sacre_!" The half-breed paused and wiped his face.
"Didn't you like it down Yuma Way?" Benton smiled.
"Lak it! _Voila_! No wataire! No snow! Too mooch, w'at you call, de
leezard! Een de wintaire, A'm so Godamn hot A'm lak for die.
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