Easy Come, Easy Go
To the beef round-up camp, now in the last stages of the hectictrail, there arrived, seeking the 77 outfit as by tryst, a party offour in a buckboard—driving in at noon, across the brown parchedplains, timely to the cook’s shrill yelp, “Come an’ get it!”
They were, to wit: a stout ruddy man, a younger man, and twodazzling girls of garb femininely adapted to the Wild West. Theequipage pulled down; lengthy Tex, the 77 foreman, rose from hisseat upon his hams, to meet it.
The four piled out, the girls gazing open-eyed.
That which they saw was a conclave of ten hungry, hardy, red-facedpunchers, reeking of the sun and saddle, squatted in variouspostures around the cook’s Dutch ovens and earnestly stowing awaythe midday chuck of coffee, beef, beans, stewed canned tomatoes, hotbread and sorghum.
That which the diners saw was two damsels fabulously appareled andglowing with innocent curiosity, the young sprig in dude rig ofriding-breeches and natty flannel shirt and polished puttees, theelder man caparisoned to similar “sporting” effect and manifestingan important strut, aggravated, perhaps, by the bondage of theflesh.
It was one world imposed upon another.
Here, then, was the 77 owner, from the East, evidently to see howhis—his cows and men were stacking up! Had brought his friends orfamily (“tourists,” in any guise) to the show; and first they werewatching the “animals” eat.
“Oh, how romantic!” breathed one of the damsels, lips parted.
“Oh, hell!” murmured man to man.
Dignified as “Mr. Matthews” by virtue of his office, Tex acted host.The party seated themselves. The somewhat flustered cook, Texassisting with the utensils, proceeded to serve from his cow-campmenu.
The 77 stoically swigged and champed. At last—
“All right, boys.” Tex had spoken from his feet. The horse-herd wasin, confined by its rope corral. With creaking of joints the menrose from their post-prandial cigarettes, to take down their ropesfrom their saddles and to stump on to snare their afternoon mounts.
No joints protested more than those of Laramie,—“Laramie Red,”—whohad been riding a hard-bitted horse all the morning and was due, heknew, to fork Old Thunder this afternoon.
The horses of one’s string, however, should be ridden turn about.Consequently Laramie flicked his noose for Old Thunder; and at theclap of the hemp around his neck, Old Thunder followed the trend ofthe rope. A mild-in-appearance, fly-bitten roan, he, with a sleepyeye—but with Roman nose and aggressive chocky head wherein obstinacyhad its dwelling-place.
With “Oh!’s” and “Ah!’s” and sundry “By George! See that!” thetourist squad had taken station to observe the very simpleoperations of tossing a noose over a horse’s head, yanking himforth, and investing him with b