round of drinks, I'll gamble, Pickles, that you-all stole that hoss
down thar, an' that the "7K" brand on his shoulder ain't no brand at
all, but picked on with the p'int of a knife.'

"When Jack puts it all over Pickles that a-way, we looks for
shootin' shore. But Pickles can't steady himse'f on the call. He's
like ponies I've met. He'll ride right at a thing as though he's
goin' plumb through or over, an' at the last second he quits an'
flinches an' weakens. Son, it ain't Pickles' fault. Thar ain't no
breed of gent but the pure white who can play a desp'rate deal down
through, an' call the turn for life or death at the close; an'
Pickles, that a-way, is only half white. So he laughs sort o' ugly
at Jack's bluff, an' allows he orders drinks without no wagers.

"'An' then, Jack,' he says, 'I wants you to come feed with me. I'll
have Missis Rucker burn us up something right.'

"'I'll go you,' says Jack, 'if it ain't nothin' but salt hoss.'

"'I'll fix you-all folks up a feed,' says Missis Rucker, a heap
grim, 'but you don't do no banquetin' in no dinin' room of mine.
I'll spread your grub in the camp-house, t'other side the corral,
an' you-all can then be as sociable an' smoky as you please. Which
you'll be alone over thar, an' can conduct the reepast in any
fashion to suit yourse'fs. But you don't get into the dinin' room
reg'lar, an' go to weedin' out my boarders accidental, with them
feuds of yours.'

"After a little, their grub's got ready in the camp house. It's a
jo-darter of a feed, with cake, pie, airtights, an' the full game,