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--_Sacré_!" 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'