“Turkey eggs is too rich for my blood,” said Bob Blades, rising from the game.  “I don’t care a continental who wins the egg now, for whenever I get three queens pat beat by a four card draw, I have misgivings about the deal.  And old Quince thinks he can stack cards.  He couldn’t stack hay.”

“Speaking about Mexicans and Indians,” said Wyatt Roundtree, “I’ve got more use for a good horse than I have for either of those grades of humanity.  I had a little experience over east here, on the cut off from the Chisholm trail, a few years ago, that gave me all the Injun I want for some time to come.  A band of renegade Cheyennes had hung along the trail for several years, scaring or begging passing herds into giving them a beef.  Of course all the cattle herds had more or less strays among them, so it was easier to cut out one of these than to argue the matter.  There was plenty of herds on the trail then, so this band of Indians got bolder than bandits.  In the year I’m speaking of, I went up with a herd of horses belonging to a Texas man, who was in charge with us.  When we came along with our horses—­only six men all told—­the chief of the band, called Running Bull Sheep, got on the bluff bigger than a wolf and demanded six horses.  Well, that Texan wasn’t looking for any particular Injun that day to give six of his own dear horses to.  So we just drove on, paying no attention to Mr. Bull Sheep.  About half a mile farther up the trail, the chief overtook us with all his bucks, and they were an ugly looking lot.  Well, this time he held up four fingers, meaning that four horses would be acceptable.  But the Texan wasn’t recognizing the Indian levy of taxation that year.  When he refused them, the Indians never parleyed a moment, but set up a ‘ki yi’ and began circling round the herd on their ponies, Bull Sheep in the lead.

“As the chief passed the owner, his horse on a run, he gave a special shrill ‘ki yi,’ whipped a short carbine out of its scabbard, and shot twice into the rear of the herd.  Never for a moment considering consequences, the Texan brought his six-shooter into action.  It was a long, purty shot, and Mr. Bull Sheep threw his hands in the air and came off his horse backward, hard hit.  This shooting in the rear of the horses gave them such a scare that we never checked them short of a mile.  While the other Indians were holding a little powwow over their chief, we were making good time in the other direction, considering that we had over eight hundred loose horses.  Fortunately our wagon and saddle horses had gone ahead that morning, but in the run we overtook them.  As soon as we checked the herd from its scare, we turned them up the trail, stretched ropes from the wheels of the wagon, ran the saddle horses in, and changed mounts just a little quicker than I ever saw it done before or since.  The cook had a saddle in the wagon, so we caught him up a horse, clapped leather on him, and tied him behind the wagon