"He's my meat." Dade caught the mirthless smile on his lips and looked at him curiously, his attitude still belligerent.
"He's talkin' about Betty, the damned skunk!" he objected.

His voice was a low, throaty whisper and it did not carry to the table where the three men sat.
"He was sure talkin' about her," said Calumet inexpressively.

"An' I'll admit that any man who talks that way about a woman is what you've called him.

But it's my funeral," he added, his voice suddenly cold and hard, "an' you ain't buttin' in, whatever happens.

Buy yourself another drink," he suggested; "you look flustered.