yere Greasers—squaws an' all—who's had us treed? It oughter be did; an' if we-alls don't do it none, it's a heap likely it's goin' to be neglected complete. It's easy as a play; every hoss-thief of 'em lives right in these yere valleys, for I hears 'em talk. All we has to do is sa'nter back in the hills, make a camp; an' by bein' slow an' shore, an' takin' time an' pains, we bushwhacks an' kills the last one."
"'The way I feels about Willis makes the prospect mighty allurin,' an' tharupon Tate an' me opens a game with them Mexicans it takes five months to deal.
"'But it's plumb dealt out, an' we win. When Tate crosses the Rio Grande with the army goin' back, he shorely has the skelp of every Mexican incloosive of said Princess.
"'But I wanders from Willis. Where was I at when I bogs down? As I says, this lieutenant nabs a pistol an' goes flutterin' from his limb. But this don't do them Greasers. They puts up a claim that some Americans tracks up on one of their outfit an' kills him off, they says, five days before. They allows that, breakin' even on the deal, one of us is due to die. Tate offers to let 'em count the lieutenant, but they shakes their heads till the little bells on their sombreros tinkles, an' declines the lieutenant emphatic.
"'They p'ints out this yere lieutenant dies in his own game, on his own deal. It's no racket
