He shifted his head upon his clasped hands so that his eyes might rest upon the waning firelight, where the pot of frijoles, set back from supper, was still steaming languidly in the hot ashes.
"You started it yourself, two weeks ago," he announced whimsically, to lighten a little the somber tale.

"If you hadn't bought that white horse from that drunken Spaniard, I'd be holding a handful of aces and kings to-night, most likely, in Bill Wilson's place.

And my legs wouldn't be aching like the devil," he added, reminded anew of his troubles, when he shifted his position.

"It's all your fault, bought the horse." Dade grinned and bent to hold a twig in the coals, that he might light a cigarette.

"All right, I'm the guilty party.