“At the worst Frenchy owes me ten that I won fair on the second bet last night,” he says. “If I have to collect that, I aim to charge him something for collectin’. I had that in mind last night if the green hadn’t come when my dollar was on it.” I sees reason in this, and oils my guns. Frenchy was waitin’ with his lookout, gay and cheerful. “Did you bring your sack?” was his greeting. “Why, no, I forgot. Hi! Bud!” Stranger gives a boy five dollars. “Bring an ore sack to the barkeep for me, and keep the change.” We gets Brown with the package of stake money and prognostications on our way through the crowd to a back room. Brown busts the package and begins the hollow mockery. “Bet number one.” He reads the specifications. “Bryan loses. Any objections?” Stranger shakes his head sorrowful, and pushes over the two-thousand-dollar packet. “Bet number two.” Brown breaks the list of thirty-six states. “For Bryan,” he reads: “Connecticut, New York, Indiana, Illinois, Michigan, Minnesota--” His feelings overcome him and he laughs till the tears roll down his face. Frenchy leers, and the lookout rocks himself back and forward. And to cap it off comes a knock, and barkeep comes in with the sack Stranger ordered. They howled. “I’ll give you ten for your sack,” gasps Frenchy. “You needn’t rub it in,” says Stranger, injured. “I certain was mistook in them estimates. Pass on to the next.” “Third bet,” wheezes Brown. He wipes his cheeks and tears open the list of four states. “Bryan will carry--” he begins. He turns pale, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and his eyes bugged out so you could hang your hat on ’em. “TEXAS!” he screeches. “_Arkansas, Georgia_, SOUTH CAROLINA!” “_Then_ I made a good bet!” observes Stranger, popping the rest of the money into the sack. “What!” yells Frenchy. “You were to name four additional states--forty in all!” “Oh, no. Four _others_. These four were not in my list of thirty-six. You lost and I’ve got the mon. Why didn’t you inquire? You orter understand a game before you play it. This is my game, and my rules go. See?” Stranger’s gun was dangling on his right hip, but, as Frenchy drew, Stranger’s right hand caught his’n, gun and all, and Stranger’s left produced a .45 from nowhere at all and proceeds to bend it over Frenchy’s head. The tin-horn couldn’t get his right hand loose, so he reaches around with his left, jerks Stranger’s gun from his hip. But he only wastes time snapping it, for that one wasn’t loaded. I thought maybe Brown and the lookout would double up on my pardner, but they didn’t. They just shoved the two pits of their two stomachs up against the muzzles of my two guns, and looked foolish. “Nuff!” screams Frenchy, letting go his gun. He looks like ration day at Rosebud. Me and Stranger walks out, sticking closer’n brothers, lockstepping, back to back.