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The boys joshed and went around like they was in a horsepital, quiet and steppin' catty. I could write a book out of them joshin's and sell her, if I could write her with a brandin'-iron or a rope. Anyhow, the colt she gets well and I turns her out on the range, which ought to be the end of the story, but it ain't.
Don't you see that it is your duty to let me stay here where I can build up on your cooking?" She turned this aside. "Mother don't think much of my cooking. She says I can handle a brandin'-iron a heap better than I can a rollin'-pin." "You certainly can ride," he replied, with admiring accent. "I shall never forget the picture you made that first time I saw you racing to intercept the stage.
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