So there was a good chance of Jose winning that fight.

In his heart Dade knew it, even if his lips never would admit it.
Well, supposing Jose was beaten; suppose Jack won! What then?
Dade blew a mouthful of smoke towards the camp-fire, deserted except for himself, while his vaqueros disported themselves with their neighbors, and shook his head.

He had a little imagination; perhaps he had more than most men of his type.

He could see a glorious row, if Jose were beaten.

It would, on the whole, be more disastrous than if he won.
"And she's just fickle-minded enough to turn up her nose at Jack if he got beat," Dade grumbled, thinking of a certain senorita.