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Remembering how he had nearly drowned me in the spring, I resented his sudden change. He could not do enough for me. I asked the reason for my sudden popularity. Herky scratched his head and grinned. "Yep, kid, you sure hev riz in my estimashun." "Hey, you rummy cow-puncher," broke in Bud, scornfully. "Mebbe you'd like the kid more'n you do if you'd got one of them wollops."
"Now, if I was a bow-legged young cow-puncher with curly hair, and looked fierce and noble and could make a gal's eyes shine like stars in the evenin', I reckon I wouldn't be sittin' here signin' letters." "He isn't bow-legged!" flashed Dorothy. She was very definite about that. "And he's not a cowboy. He is a ranger." "My goodness! I done put my foot in a gopher hole that shake.
He knew that Dennis was a cow-puncher, and not a star performer on his own pitch, and he had only to look at the man to realise how unfitted he was for the rough work of a logging-camp. A derisive chuckle gurgled from his huge, hairy throat as he growled out "Say! This ain't like teachin' Sunday-school." "I know it ain't," said Dennis cheerfully.
The old plainsman tugged his sun-bleached moustache viciously. "Why, boys," he declared emphatically, "them reptiles ain't begun ter fight yet." As the cow-puncher spoke, there came a sound from the direction of the gate which was filled with sinister significance. Thud! Thud! It echoed hollowly within the stockade. Buck Bradley was quick to read its meaning.
Henry Woodson, the cow-puncher, still known as Mizzoo was one of the old gang who greeted Wilfred with extravagant joy which shaded away to easy and picturesque melancholy in lamenting the passing of the good old days. "These is the days of fences," complained Mizzoo, as Wilfred, in answer to his invitation, rode forth with him to view the changes.
"Kitty Reid's a mighty nice girl, I tell you, but Jim, he says that there needn't no cow-puncher come around tryin' to get her, 'cause she's been away to school, you know, an' I think Phil " "Whoa! Hold on a minute, sonny," interrupted Patches hastily. "What's the matter?" questioned Little Billy.
That's Jim Raley, with the busted arm. That other is Jud Smith, My name's Larkin. We belong to the X bar O outfit on Lost Soldier Creek." "Second outfit below Forty-Mile," said Huntington, familiarly. "Right!" "Sanders still foreman?" "Yes." "Then what are you doing with that horse up here?" The cow-puncher grinned. "I ketch your meanin'," he replied. "It's like this.
His coarse blue flannel shirt was unbuttoned at the throat; his soiled brown corduroy trousers were thrust unevenly into dusty and wrinkled boot tops; his old, gray hat was slouched over one side of his forehead, shading his eyes. But the face beneath that faded and disreputable hat, as Marion saw with a slight thrill of curiosity, belonged to no ranch hand or cow-puncher.
"And do you know that I'm beginning to like to roll my own 'cigareet'?" Argyl clapped her hands, laughing with her father. "I told you so, daddy!" she cried, merrily. "Didn't I say that Mr. Conniston was born to be a good cow-puncher!" "And I'm half persuaded that you are right, Argyl," came from behind the dense cloud of cigar-smoke. "But you haven't told us how you like the work, Conniston."
"I'm sure you're hurt I'm perfectly sure you're hurt," she persisted, holding her ground. "Now, do tell us what can possibly be the matter with you?" "Very well," returned the exasperated cow-puncher, "I will.
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