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Updated: May 3, 2025
"We'll have our rifles ready, boys, ha, ha, ha-ha!" was still our favorite chorus, "Newbrasky" and Wyoming our far-off wonderlands, Buffalo Bill our hero. David, my hunter uncle who lived near us, still retained his long old-fashioned, muzzle-loading rifle, and one day offered it to me, but as I could not hold it at arm's length, I sorrowfully returned it.
They belonged ter ole man Stallings. I reckon you remember him, what we met on our way ter Fort Grant, when yer run erway an' got lost on Red Mesa." Stella nodded. "I wuz lookin' fer a bunch o' cow hosses. We sold a big run o' 'em ter a Newbrasky cowman who was short o' saddle stock, an' who said he'd heard we had the best-broke cow ponies in ther West, an' I reckon we had.
"I'm not a settler yet, but I expect to try it here." "You don't tell me?" "Yes sir; that's my intention." "Where you from?" "Iowa." The bone man looked his passenger over with interest, from his feet in their serviceable shoes, to his head under his round-crowned, wide-brimmed black hat. "A good many of 'em used to come in here from Ioway and Newbrasky in the early days," he said.
I jest knows a hoss when I sees one." "Yer don't call thet a hoss yer a-straddlin', I hope?" "I shore do. He ain't much fer ter gaze on admirin', I agree, but he's a good little cayuse. I reckon, now, yer some proud o' thet magpie hoss." "I be. It kin outrun anythin' this side o' ther State o' Newbrasky." "P'r'aps yer lookin' fer a race ter see what ther best we've got in camp kin do, no?"
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