" The man grinned and the frown faded from the Texan's
face. "You got to do me a good turn, Bat. Remember them four bits in
Las Vegas!"
"A'm tak' de girl to Snake Creek crossin' a'right; you'm don' need for
be 'fraid for dat."
The cowpuncher whirled and spurred his horse to overtake the cowboys
who, with the prisoner in charge, were already well out upon the trail.
In front of the hotel the half-breed watched the flying horseman until
he disappeared from sight.
"A'm wonder if dat girl be safe wit' him, lak' she is wit' me--_bien_.
A'm t'ink mebbe-so dat damn good t'ing ol' Bat goin' long. If she damn
fine girl mebbe-so Tex, he goin' mar' her. Dat be good t'ing. But, by
Gar! if he don' mar' her, he gon' leave her 'lone. Me--A'm lak' dat
Tex fine, lak' me own brudder. He got de good heart. But w'en he
drink de hooch, den A'm got for look after him. He don' care wan damn
'bout nuttin'. Dat four bit in Las Vegas, dats a'right. A'm fink
'bout dat, too. But, by Gar, it tak' more'n four bit in Las Vegas for
mak' of Bat let dat girl git harm."
An atmosphere of depression pervaded the group of riders as they wound
in and out of the cottonwood clumps and threaded the deep coulee that
led to the bench. For the most part they preserved an owlish silence,
but now and then someone would break into a low, weird refrain and the
others would join in with the mournful strain of "The Dying Cowboy.
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