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Updated: June 7, 2025
"Prob'ly Big Tom'll only pull my ear," he said philosophically. "And he won't do that much, even, if if you'll go along." "Will I!" cried One-Eye. "Wal, it'd take a twenty-mule team t' holt me back!" "Honest?" For this fellow was a wag, and there was no telling what he really meant to do. "If I don't, I'll eat my shaps!" promised One-Eye.
Throwing Chapuli into the corral he kicked off his spurs and shaps and gave Lucy her first lesson in frontier cookery; taught her by the force of his example how to waste her wood and save her back; and at the end of the short demonstration he sat down without ceremony, and fell to eating. "Excuse me," he said, "if I seem to be greedy, but I had my breakfast before sun-up.
The major is bolstering things from week to week now until the Plantagould people get what they are after a controlling majority of the stock and then Judge MacFarlane will come back." They were within two squares of the Clarendon, and the cross-street was deserted save for a drunken cow-boy in shaps and sombrero staggering aimlessly around the corner. "That's curious," Loring remarked.
But that's all right I wouldn't hold it up against a dead man." The deputy sheriff laughed in spite of himself, and the coroner chuckled, too. The death of a Mexican sheep-herder was not a very sombre matter to gentlemen of their profession. "I suppose you were armed?" inquired the coroner casually. "I had my six-shooter in my shaps, all right." "Ah, is that the gun? What calibre is it?"
Famous cowboys reared before him on bucking bronchos, their leg-fringes streaming on the blast, and desperate chaps who held up coaches and potted Wells Fargo guards. Anybody must needs be a devil of a fellow who went about in "shaps," as his California cousins called chaparejos.
"Oh, pretty good," he conceded, rising up and surveying the battlefield, "and I reckon I ain't forgot nothin'," he added meaningly. He kicked his blanket roll, tied his war bag behind the saddle, and hitched up his overalls regally. "Sorry I ain't goin' to see more of you," he observed, slipping his six-shooter into his shaps, "but " "What, you aren't going?" cried Kitty, aghast.
The men were lean, sinewy fellows, accustomed to riding half-broken horses at any speed over any country by day or by night. They wore flannel shirts, with loose handkerchiefs knotted round their necks, broad hats, high-heeled boots with jingling spurs, and sometimes leather shaps, although often they merely had their trousers tucked into the tops of their high boots.
Seen from the nearer point of view, the tittuping horseman seemed curiously out of harmony with his environment. Instead of the cow-boy "shaps," or overalls, he wore the trousers of civilization, which the rapid night had hitched half-way to his knees.
Louie is tryin' to make me out a millionaire, or somethin' like that, and I'm naturally interested." He tore the letter open, extracted a second epistle from its depths and read it over gravely. "Well, boys," he observed, grinning cheerfully as he tucked it away in his shaps, "my luck always did run in bunches I'm rich!"
"I do think this hat of Hawaiian straw is a success. And you well, I'm rather proud of my trail guide. Used you to dress like that in your cowboy days?" Nick laughed. "Great Scot, no! I'd have been in rags in no time. Didn't you ever see a cowpuncher's 'shaps'?" "No; I don't even know what they are. Have you kept your cowboy things?" "Oh, yes. They're knocking around somewhere.
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