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His attention was keen for the next picture, a Western drama, entitled "The Battle of the Border," which ran swiftly to lurid climax after climax, until even Pete's unsophisticated mind doubted that any hero could have the astounding ability to get out of tight places as did the cowboy hero of this picture.
Despite the fact that a year had passed since he had practically "Lochinvared" the most willing Anita, though with the full and joyous consent of her parents, he still clung to the habiliments of the cowboy, feeling that they offset the more or less menial requirements of tilling the soil.
The cowboy said before he knew it his whole bunch of steers was swallowed whole, and they would have swallowed him and his horse if he hadn't skinned out on a gallop.
The cowboy turned and saw a herder running toward him. He reined around and sat waiting grimly. When the herder was within speaking distance. Fadeaway's hand dropped to his hip and the herder stopped. He gesticulated and spoke rapidly in Spanish. Fadeaway answered, but in a kind of Spanish not taught in schools or heard in indoor conversation. The herder pressed forward. "Why, how! Fernando.
Planting his feet firmly on the rock the big cowboy lashed the kinks out of his reata and coiled it carefully; then as the first broad swirl seized its plaything and swung him slowly around Creede let out a big loop and began to swing it about his head, his teeth showing in a tense grin as he fixed his eyes upon the mark.
When they lifted him he opened his eyes and looked at them; while they carried him tenderly out from the wet tangle and into the warmth of the sun, he set his teeth against the groans that would come. They stood around him uneasily and looked down at him. He was young, like themselves, and he was a stranger; also, he was dressed like a cowboy, in chaps, high-heeled boots and silver-mounted spurs.
They saw his long hair almost brush the grass; one of his hands swept down and up, and once more Tad Butler rose standing, in his stirrups, uttering a cowboy yell as he waved the sombrero on high. The boys howled with delight that is, all did save Stacy Brown. "Huh! That's nothing. I can do that myself," he grunted.
After supper, Barrow proposed a walk, and they started. Barrow had a purpose. He wanted Tracy to get rid of that cowboy hat. He didn't see his way to finding mechanical or manual employment for a person rigged in that fashion. Barrow presently said: "As I understand it, you're not a cowboy." "No, I'm not." "Well, now if you will not think me too curious, how did you come to mount that hat?
Already the death of Tim McGrath was falling into the background of their swift, turbulent lives. After all the cowboy dies young. Tim's soul had wandered out across the great divide only a few months before that of others among them. Out of the mist emerged the desert, still gray and vague and without detail. The day's work was astir once more.
"Don't let 'em run away with you!" laughed the cowboy, as he helped Jan and Ted into their saddles. "Oh, Clipclap and Star Pace won't run away!" declared the little girl. "They're too nice." "Yes, they are nice ponies," agreed the cowboy. "Well, good-bye and good luck."
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