"No place for amatures," repeated the voice; and now I saw that
it was the dealer's. There was in his countenance the same
ugliness that his words conveyed.

"Who's that talkin'?" said one of the men near me, in a low
voice.

"Trampas."

"What's he?"

"Cow-puncher, bronco-buster, tin-horn, most anything."

"Who's he talkin' at?"

"Think it's the black-headed guy he's talking at."

"That ain't supposed to be safe, is it?"

"Guess we're all goin' to find out in a few minutes."

"Been trouble between 'em?"

"They've not met before. Trampas don't enjoy losin' to a
stranger."

"Fello's from Arizona, yu' say?"

"No. Virginia. He's recently back from havin' a look at Arizona.
Went down there last year for a change. Works for the Sunk Creek