“An' so ornery!” howled Lefty, throwing his arms around the discomfited youngster. Other arms went around him, and out of the sobbing mob could be heard earnest and heart-felt cussing, interspersed with imperative commands, which were gradually obeyed. The Kid straightened up his wearing apparel. “Come on, yu locoed--” “Angels?” Queried Charley Lane, interrupting him. “Sweet things?” breathed Hopalong in hopeful expectancy. “Oh, blast it!” yelled the Kid as he ran out into the street to escape the persecution. “Good Kid, all right,” remarked Waffles. “He'll go around an' lick some Mexican an' come back sweet as honey.” “Did somebody say poker?” Asked Bigfoot, digressing from the Kid. “Oh, yu fellows don't want no poker. Of course yu don't. Poker's mighty uncertain,” replied Red. “Yah!” exclaimed Tex Le Blanc, pushing forward. “I'll just bet yu to a standstill that Waffles an' Salvation'll round up all th' festive simoleons yu can get together! An' I'll throw in Frenchy's hat as an inducement.” “Well, if yore shore set on it make her a pool,” replied Red, “an' th' winners divide with their outfit. Here's a starter,” he added, tossing a buckskin bag on the table. “Come on, pile 'em up.” The crowd divided as the players seated themselves at the table, the O-Bar-O crowd grouping themselves behind their representatives; the Bar-20 behind theirs. A deck of cards was brought and the game was on. Red, true to his nature, leaned back in a corner, where, hands on hips, he awaited any hostile demonstration on the part of the O-Bar-O; then, suddenly remembering, he looked half ashamed of his warlike position and became a peaceful citizen again. Buck leaned with his broad back against the bar, talking over his shoulder to the bartender, but watching Tenspot Davis, who was assiduously engaged in juggling a handful of Mexican dollars. Up by the door Bigfoot Baker, elated at winning the buck-and-wing contest, was endeavoring to learn a new step, while his late rival was drowning his defeat at Buck's elbow. Lefty Allen was softly singing a Mexican love song, humming when the words would not come. At the table could be heard low-spoken card terms and good-natured banter, interspersed with the clink of gold and silver and the soft pat-pat of the onlookers' feet unconsciously keeping time to Lefty's song. Notwithstanding the grim assertiveness of belts full of .45's and the peeping handles of long-barreled Colts, set off with picturesque chaps, sombreros and tinkling spurs, the scene was one of peaceful content and good-fellowship. “Ugh!” grunted Johnny, walking over to Red and informing that person that he, Red, was a worm-eaten prune and that for half a wink he, Johnny, would prove it. Red grabbed him by the seat of his corduroys and the collar of his shirt and helped him outside, where they strolled about, taking pot shots at whatever their fancy suggested.