to read some, nights. I reckon that's where I got the idea of makin' up
po'try, later."

"I really beg your pardon," said Bartley.

"The mescal must of told you."

"I don't quite get that," said Bartley.

"No? Well, you ain't the first. Josh and Filaree is the only ones that
sabes me. Let's sit in this corner and watch the mescal work for a
livin'."

It was a hot night. Sweat prickled on Bartley's forehead. His nose
itched. He lit a cigar. It tasted bitter, so he asked Cheyenne for
tobacco and papers, and rolled a cigarette. He inhaled a whiff, and felt
more comfortable. The Mexicans, who had ceased to talk when Bartley and
Cheyenne entered, were now at it again, making plenty of noise.

Cheyenne hummed to himself and tapped the floor with his boot-heel.
"She's a funny old world," he declared.

Bartley nodded and blew a smoke-ring.

"Miss Dorry's sure a interestin' girl," asserted Cheyenne.

Bartley nodded again.

"Kind of young and innocent-like."