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Updated: August 12, 2024
This chap is no calf, and he's sore over his scrap. He's on the prod right now." It all happened in a few seconds. The cowboy's horse, understanding from long experience that this threatening mark for his master's riata was in no gentle frame of mind, fretted uneasily as though dreading his part in the task before them.
Neale thrilled as he looked. A few hundred rods in the rear rode a band of Sioux, coming swiftly. A cloud of dust rose behind them. They had, no doubt, been hiding in the vicinity of the grazing buffalo, lying in wait. As Neale closed in on Larry he saw the cowboy's keen glance measuring distance and speed.
In crates were our cooking-utensils, ham, bacon, canned salmon, jam, flour, corn-meal, eggs, baking-powder, flies, rods, and reels, reflector ovens, sunburn lotion, coffee, cocoa, and so on. Cocoa is the cowboy's friend. Innumerable blankets, "tarp" beds, and war-sacks lay rolled ready for the pack-saddles. The cook was declaiming loudly that some one had opened his pack and taken out his cleaver.
I shall just cut down to the back and take a bite in the barn." "Indeed you will do nothing of the sort. Do you suppose I came up to this place, where company only arrives twice a year or so, to be that lonesome thing a cowboy's bride, that you might slip away and take bites in barns? No sir not at all.
A blow could not have hit harder than the cowboy's biting speech. Astonishment and fear shook Neuman before he recovered control of himself. "If it's true, what's that to me?" he bluffed, in hoarse accents. "Neuman, I didn't come to answer questions," said the cowboy, curtly.
The boys on hosses, firin' salutes as they see it, a preacher sharp to give it dignity, en the 'Cowboy's Lament, as sung by ole Landy Spencer. That's a fitten program, en you are engaged fer the job." "En about when do ye plan to stage this splendid event?" drawled Landy. "Why, when I die, ye idiot, mebbe now, mebbe later, jist whenever I bed down fer the last time.
He paused, set down the pan that he held and opened the door of the chuck-room. With finger marking the count he totaled the number of chairs at the table. Fifteen. Then he stepped softly to the bunk-room, took Sinker's hat and stepped back to the table. He placed the hat on the dead cowboy's chair. Then he closed the door and turned to the preparation of the evening meal.
All too soon, Pete would bring Angel to me, and I would vault into the saddle extremely figurative, this and we would fall into line, Pete swaying with the cowboy's roll in the saddle, the Optimist bouncing freely, Joe with an eye on that pack-horse which carried the delicacies of the trip, the Big Boy with long legs that almost touched the ground, the Middle Boy with eyes roving for adventure, the Little Boy deadly serious and hoping for a bear.
In addition he wears high-heeled Mexican boots which throw him on his toes when he walks and makes his already shambling gait even more awkward. A cowboy's life has little in it to inspire him with high ideals or arouse his ambition to achieve greatness. He leads a hard life among rough men and receives only coarse fare and rougher treatment.
He wore a flopping old felt hat, a faded cotton shirt and an ancient pair of copper-riveted blue-jeans overalls tucked into a pair of cowboy's boots. A time-discoloured cartridge belt encircled his hips, supporting a holster from which protruded the shiny butt of an old-fashioned Colt's 45. But if the man was thus nondescript and shabby, his mount and its caparisons were magnificent.
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