"A cow-pony," he said, half in sorrow.
"Is my upper-works collapsin', or wot? A cow-pony? Wot sort er bally hermofridite is that?"
"Why, a cow-hoss——"
"Cow-'orse? Am I 'alf-rats, or is you 'avin' a game? If so, governor, I guess you an' me'll part brass-rags——"
"Thar's generally a pretty fair mob of 'em in a round-up or trail-outfit; ten or twelve per man is the usual play," went on Broncho serenely, passing over Bill Benson's excited words, which, of course, were double-Dutch to him.
The bosun's mate sighed faintly.
"Go on; oh, go on," he said resignedly. "An' wot's brandin'?"
"Wall, thar's range-brands an' road-brands. Sometimes it's a wattle cut on the jaw, sometimes a slit dewlap, but mostly we-alls just irons 'em on the hindquarter. Brands that-away is mighty numerous an' variegated. These few I recalls for your eedification—The Running W, Laurel-Leaf, Circle, Lazy H, Pitchfork, Double-Bracket, the Two-Bar——"
"I've 'eard o' monkey brand, but I'm a blighted grabby if I ever navigates with a range-brand afore. Noo-fangled range-finder, I s'pose. A wattle-cut on the jaw I can keep stations with. It's a nawsty upper-cut that, I h'expec', likely to 'eat the bearin's of the josser wot cops it. Well, wot's the nex' course? Branding'll pass; it's too deep for my intellec'. Rub it off the signal-slate an' sachey ahead."
"Then thar's bound'ry-ridin', which is scoutin' round watchin' the cattle don't get strayed or drifted offen their proper range."