“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. Non!  A’m com’ way from dere.  A’m goin’ Nort’ an’ git me nodder job w’ere A’m git som’ wataire som’tam’.  Mebbe so git too mooch col’ in wintaire, but, voila!  Better A’m lak I freeze l’il bit as burn oop!”

The Texan laughed.  “I don’t blame you none.  I never be’n down to Yuma but they tell me it’s hell on wheels.  Go ahead an’ deal, Pedro.”

“Pedro, non!  Ma moder she nam’ Moon Eye, an’ ma fader she Cross-Cut Lajune.  Derefor’, A’m Batiste Xavier Jean Jacques de Beaumont Lajune.”

The bottle thumped upon the table top.

“What the hell is that, a name or a song?”

“Me, das ma nam’—­A’m call Batiste Xavier Jean——­”

“Hold on there!  If your ma or pa, or whichever one done the namin’ didn’t have no expurgated dictionary handy mebbe they ain’t to blame—­but from now on, between you an’ me, you’re Bat.  That’s name enough, an’ the John Jack Judas Iscariot an’ General Jackson part goes in the discards.  An’ bein’ as this here is only a two-handed game, the discards is dead——­ See?”

At the end of an hour the half-breed watched with a grin as the Texan raked in a huge pile of chips.

“Dat de las’,” he said, “Me, A’m broke.”

“Broke!” exclaimed the cowpuncher, “you don’t mean you’ve done lost all that there six hundred an’ forty-eight bucks?” He counted the little piles of silver and gold, which the half-breed had shoved across the board in return for stack after stack of chips.

“Six-forty-two,” he totalled.  “Let’s see, supper was a dollar an’ four bits, drinks two dollars, an’ two dollars for this bottle of prune-juice that’s about gone already, an’—­Hey, Bat, you’re four bits shy!  Frisk yourself an’ I’ll play you a showdown for them four bits.”  The other grinned and held a silver half dollar between his finger and thumb.