* * * * *
Bill Wilson, having collected their winnings and his own, sought Dade
and Jack, where they were lying under the shade of a sycamore just
beyond the rim of the crowd chattering shrilly of the later events. With
a grunt of relief to be rid of the buzzing, Bill flung himself down
beside them and plucked a cigar from an inner pocket.
"Say," he began, after he had bitten off the end of the cigar and had
moistened the whole with his tongue. "Them greasers sure do hate to come
forward with their losings! Some bets I never will be able to collect;
but I got a lot--enough to pay for the trouble of coming down." He
rolled over upon his back and lay smoking and looking up into the
mottled branches of the tree; thought of something, and lifted himself
to an elbow so that he faced Jack.
"Sa-ay, I thought you said you was going to kill that greaser," he
challenged quizzically.
Jack shrugged his shoulders, took two long draws on his cigarette, and
blew one of his pet smoke-rings. "I did." He moistened his lips and blew
another ring. "At least, I killed the biggest part of him--and that's
his pride."
Bill grunted, lay down again, and stared up at the wide-pronged sycamore
leaves. "Darn my oldest sister's cat's eyes if I ever seen anything like
it!" he exploded suddenly, and closed his eyes in a vast content.
From the barbecue pits there came an appetizing odor of roasting beef;
high-keyed voices flung good-humored taunts, and once they heard a great
shout of laughter surge through the crowd gathered there.
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