"What's your brother-in-law's name?"
Pete deliberated gravely.
"In my opinion his name Edward; mebbe Sam, mebbe Charlie; I think more
it's Albert."
"Well, what about that next time he broke out?"
"Whoosh! Damn no-good squaw man get all Injins drunk on whiskey; then
play poker with four aces. 'What you got? No good--four aces--hard
luck--deal 'em up!'" Pete's flexible wrists here flashed in pantomime.
"Pretty soon Injin got no mules, no blanket, no spring wagon, no gun, no
new boots, no nine dollars my old mahala gets paid for three bushel wild
plums from Old Lady Pettengill to make canned goods of--only got one big
sick head from all night; see four aces, four kings, four jacks. 'What
you got, Pete? No good. Full house here. Hard luck--my deal. Have
another drink, old top!'"
"Well, what did your brother-in-law do when he heard about this?"
"Something!"
"Shoot?"
"Naw; got no gun left. Choke him on the neck--I think this way."
The supple hands of Pete here clutched his corded throat, fingertips
meeting at the back, and two potent thumbs uniting in a sinister
pressure upon his Adam's apple.
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