On Dave's presenting himself, I innocently asked the pair if they
did not remember my friend as one of the men whom they had under
arrest at Dodge. They grunted an embarrassed acknowledgment,
which was returned in the same coin, when I proceeded to inform
them that our cattle crossed the railroad at Little Missouri ten
days before, and that we were only waiting the return of Mr.
Lovell from the Crow Agency before proceeding to our destination.
With true Yankee inquisitiveness, other questions followed, the
trend of which was to get us to admit that we had something to do
with the present activities in quarantining Texas cattle. But I
avoided their leading queries, and looked appealingly at
Sponsilier, who came to my rescue with an answer born of the
moment.
"Well, gentlemen," said Dave, seating himself on the bar and
leisurely rolling a cigarette, "that town of Little Missouri is
about the dullest hole that I was ever water-bound in. Honestly,
I'd rather be with the cattle than loafing in it with money in my
pocket. Now this town has got some get-up about it; I'll kiss a
man's foot if he complains that this burg isn't sporty enough for
his blood. They've given me a run here for my white alley, and I
still think I know something about that game called draw-poker.
But you were speaking about quarantine. Yes; there seems to have
been a good many cattle lost through these parts last fall.
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