If you'd been around him for two weeks, you'd want to kill him just to make him take notice," Irish assured him.
"What gets me," Andy mused, "is why you fellows come crying to me for help.

I should think the bunch of you ought to be able to handle one lone Native Son." "Aw, you're the biggest liar and faker in the bunch, is why," Happy Jack blurted.
"Oh, I see." Andy hummed a little tune and pushed his hands deep into his pockets, and at the corners of his lips there flickered a smile.
The Native Son sat with his hat tilted slightly back upon his head and a cigarette between his lips, and was reaching lazily for the trick which made the fourth game his, when the group invaded the bunk-house.

He looked up indifferently, swept Andy's face and figure with a glance too impersonal to hold even a shade of curiosity, and began rapidly shuffling his cards to count the points he had made.
Andy stopped short, just inside the door, and stared hard at Miguel, who gave no sign.

He turned his honest, gray eyes upon Pink and Irish accusingly--whereat they wondered greatly.
"Your deal--if you want to play," drawled Miguel, and shoved his cards toward Big Medicine.

But the boys were already uptilting chairs to grasp the quicker the outstretched hand of the prodigal, so that Miguel gathered up the cards, evened their edges mechanically, and deigned another glance at this stranger who was being welcomed so vociferously.
Also he sighed a bit--for even a languid-eyed stoic of a Native Son may feel the twinge of loneliness.