“But how in—­”

“Wait a minute.  I’m goin’ to dig round like I was goin’ to take a sleep—­and find these here eggs.  Then I’m goin’ to count ’em nacheral, and pile ’em handy to you.  Then we rig up a deal like we was gamblin’ for ’em, to kind of pass the time.  If that don’t git them two coyotes interested, why, nothin’ will.  Next to gamblin’ a Chola likes to watch gamblin’ better ’n ’most anything.  When you git to win all my eggs, I make a holler like I’m mad.  You been cheatin’.  And if them two Cholas ain’t settin’ with their mouths open and lookin’ at us, why, I don’t know Cholas.  They’re listenin’ right now—­but they don’t sabe.  Go ahead and talk like you was askin’ me somethin’.”

“What’s your game after we start beefin’ about the eggs?”

“You pick up a couple—­and I pick up a couple.  First you want to move round so you kin swing your arm.  When I call you a doggone bald-face short-horn, jest let your Chola have the eggs plumb in his eye.  If they bust like I figure, we got a chanct to jump ’em—­but we got to move quick.  They’s a old single-tree layin’ right clost to your elbow, kind of half under the hay.  Mebby it’ll come handy.  I figure to kick my friend in the face when I jump.  Do I find them eggs?”

“Dig for ’em,” drawled the Texan.

“If we miss the first jump, then they shoot, and that’ll be our finish.  But that’s a heap better ‘n gittin’ stood up against a ’dobe wall.  I jest found them eggs.”

And Pete uttered an exclamation as he drew his hand from the straw behind him, and produced an egg.  The Mexicans glanced up.  Pete dug in the straw and fetched up another egg—­and another.  Brevoort leaned forward as though deeply interested in some sleight-of-hand trick.  Egg after egg came from the abandoned nest.  The Mexicans laughed.  The supply of eggs seemed to be endless.

Finally Pete drew out his hand, empty.  “Let’s count ’em,” he said, and straightway began, placing the eggs in a pile midway between himself and his companion.  “Twenty-eight.  She was a enterprisin’ hen.”

“I’ll match for ’em,” said Brevoort, hitching round and facing Pete.

“I’ll go you!” And straightway Brevoort and Pete became absorbed in the game, seemingly oblivious to the Mexicans, who sat watching, with open mouths, utterly absorbed in their childish interest.  Two Gringoes were gambling for bad eggs.

Pete won for a while.  Then he began to lose.  “They’re ripe all right.  I can tell by the color.  Plumb ready to bust.  The Cholas sabe that.  Watch ’em grin.  They ‘re waitin’ for one of us to bust a egg.  That’ll be a big joke, and they’ll ’most die a-laughin’—­’cause it’s a joke—­and ’cause we’re Gringoes.”

“Then here’s where I bust one,” said Brevoort.  “Get a couple in your hand.  Act like you was chokin’ to death.  I’ll laugh.  Then I’ll kind of get the smell of that lame egg and stand up quick.  Ready?”