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"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.
What do you know about it, you woolies, punchin' cows down here in the rocks and cactus? "How's that, Miss Bunnair? W'y sure, he was hibernatin'! They all hibernate up in them cold countries.
"Where's Miss Bunnair?" he demanded, as soon as Lucy Ware was free, and there was a sudden lull in the conversation roundabout as the cowboys listened for the answer. "I'm sorry," said Miss Ware, politely evasive, "but she wasn't able to come with me."
"And yet, Miss Bunnair," he said, lowering his voice to a confidential key, "I slept a whole night with one of them big fellers and never turned a hair. I could've killed him the next day, too, but I was so grateful to him I spared his life." This was the regular "come-on" for Lightfoot's snow-storm story, and Creede showed his white teeth scornfully as Bill leaned back and began the yarn.
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