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It was right down under me; a stone ruin, with a tower on one end and kinda tumbled down so it wasn't so awful high the tower wasn't. There was a a " "Moat," Branciforte suggested. "That's the word a moat around it, and a bridge that was just about gone to pieces. It had loopholes, like the pictures of castles, and a " "Battlement?" ventured one of the musical-comedy cowgirls.
Once last fall I was riding by my high lonesome away down next the river, when my horse went lame on me from slipping on a shale bank, and I was set afoot. Uh course, you being plumb ignorant of our picturesque life, you don't half know all that might signify to imply." This last in open imitation of Branciforte. "It implies that I was in one hell of a fix, to put it elegant.
Before I got it I wanted it a heap worse." He stopped, cupped his slim fingers around a match-blaze, and Branciforte sat closer. He did not know what was coming, but the manner of the indifferent narrator was compelling. He almost forgot the point at issue in the adventure.
I can take you to something or I've seen something that's older than swearing; and I reckon that art goes back to when men wore their hair long and a sheep-pelt was called ample for dress occasions." "Are you crazy, man?" Sherwood Branciforte exclaimed incredulously. "Not what you can notice. You wait whilst I explain.
"The towns contained in this district are three; the most populous being that of Angeles, which has about twelve hundred souls; that of St. Joseph's of Guadaloupe may contain six hundred, and the village of Branciforte two hundred; they are all formed imperfectly and without order, each person having built his own house on the spot he thought most convenient for himself.
Sherwood Branciforte was down in the blacksmith shop at the Rocking R, watching one Andy Green hammer a spur-shank straight. Andy was what he himself called a tamer of wild ones, and he was hard upon his riding gear. Sherwood had that morning watched with much admiration the bending of that same spur-shank, and his respect for Andy was beautiful to behold.
Even the self-complacency of Sherwood Branciforte could not fail to note his utter indifference to the presence and opinions of his companion. Branciforte was accustomed to disputation at times even to enmity; but not to indifference. He blinked. "My dear fellow, do you realize what it is that statement might seem to imply?" he queried haughtily.
Your civilization is yet in the cradle a lusty infant, and a er vociferous one, but still an infant in swaddling clothes." Sherwood Branciforte had given lectures before the Y.M.C.A. of his home town, and young ladies had spoken of him as "gifted," and he had come to hear of it, and to believe. Andy Green squinted at the shank before he made reply.
Mason, here, is a newspaper man; he scents a story for his paper. And the rest refuse to believe a word I say." "I'd hate to have a rep like that, Mr. Branciforte," Andy said commiseratingly, and turned his big, honest gray eyes to where stood the women two breezy young persons with sleeves rolled to tanned elbows and cowboy hats of the musical comedy brand.
Branciforte knocked his pipe gently against the door-casing, put in into his coat pocket and hurried to the house to hunt up the others and tell them what he had heard. That night the roundup pulled in to the home ranch.
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