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"Not much for scenery, is it?" The offensively garrulous passenger directed his remarks to the young man, who abstractedly surveyed the landscape. "No, sir," he continued, "you've got to go West for Scenery. Ever been West?" The young man nodded without removing his gaze from the window. "I live in Coloraydo," the other persisted. "Went out there for my health and I stayed. Johnson's my name.
And when I say 'snows' I don't refer to such phenominer as Bill was tellin' about up in Coloraydo, but the real genuwine Arizona article the kind that gits started and can't stop, no more 'n a cloudburst.
And did you ever have any adventures with bears?" "Bears!" exclaimed Bill contemptuously. "Bears! Huh, we don't take no more account of ordinary bears up in Coloraydo than they do of coons down here. But them big silver-tips ump-um excuse me!" He paused and swaggered a little on the precarious support of his cracker box.
"You see, Miss Bunnair," began the Colorado cowboy, rolling his eyes about the circle to quell any tendency to give him away, "Coloraydo is an altogether different country from this here. The mountains is mighty steep and brushy, with snow on the peaks, and the cactus ain't more 'n a inch high out on the perairie.
I ain't never been up in those parts; but if Bill says so, that settles it. I never knew a feller from Coloraydo yet that could tell a lie. No, I was jest laughin' to think of that old bear suckin' his paw that way." He added this last with such an air of subterfuge and evasion that Kitty was not deceived for a moment. "No, you're not, Mr.
"Are you acquainted with 'Camill'?" she asked me, with a trifle of sternness; and upon my hesitating, "the celebrated French drayma of 'Camill'," she repeated, with a trifle more of sternness. "Camill is the lady in it who dies of consumption. Leola recites the letter-and-coughing scene, Act Third. Mr. Patterson of Coloraydo Springs pronounces it superior to Modjeska."
But if you want to hear somethin' good, you want to git Bill goin' about Coloraydo. Sure, Mr. Lightfoot is our best story-teller; and he's had some mighty excitin' times up there in them parts, hain't you, Bill?" Bill cast a baleful glance at his rival and thrust out his chin insolently. His Coloraydo experiences were a matter of jest with Jeff Creede, but with the ladies it might be different.
"W'y, sure it would be deep for Coloraydo," he answered, guardedly. Jefferson Creede glanced up at him, smoking luxuriously, holding the cigarette to his lips with his hand as if concealing a smile. "Aw, rats," snapped out Lightfoot at last, "why don't you finish up and quit? What happened then?" "Then?" drawled Creede, with a slow smile. "W'y, nothin', Bill I died!"
At night, when they weighed in, Grandpa and Daddy each got forty cents, Grandma twenty-five, Dick twenty, and Rose-Ellen fifteen. When he paid them, the foreman said, "No more work here. All cleaned up." "Good land," Grandma protested, her voice shaking, "bring us from Coloraydo for a half day's work?" "Sorry," said the foreman. "First come, first served."
But when I steered his paw around in front of him he jest grabbed onto that big black pad on the bottom of his foot like it was m'lasses candy, and went off to sleep again as peaceful as a kitten." The man from Coloraydo ended his tale abruptly, with an air of suspense, and Kitty Bonnair took the cue. "What did I do then?" demanded Lightfoot, with a reminiscent smile.
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