“Yaas?”
“He's shore a cow-punch dude—my, but he's some sumptious an' highfalutin'. An' bad? Why, he reckons th' Lord never brewed a more high-toned brand of cussedness than his'n. He shore reckons he's the baddest man that ever simmered.”
“How'd he look as th' leadin' man in a necktie festival?” Blazed Johnny from across the room, feeling called upon to help the conversation.
“He'd be a howlin' success, son,” replied Skinny Thompson, “judgin' by his friends what we elevated over in th' Panhandle.”
Lanky Smith leaned forward with his elbow on the table, resting his chin in the palm of his hand: “Is Ewalt still a-layin' for yu, Hopalong?” He asked.
Hopalong turned wearily and tossed his half-consumed cigarette into the box of sand which did duty as a cuspidore: “I reckon so; an' he shore can hatch whenever he gets good an ready, too.”
“He's probably a-broodin' over past grievances,” offered Johnny, as he suddenly pushed Lanky's elbow from the table, nearly causing a catastrophe.
“Yu'll be broodin' over present grievances if yu don't look out, yu everlastin' nuisance yu,” growled Lanky, planting his elbow in its former position with an emphasis which conveyed a warning.
“These bantams ruflle my feathers,” remarked Red. “They go around braggin' about th' egg they're goin' to lay an' do enough cacklin' to furnish music for a dozen. Then when th' affair comes off yu'll generally find they's been settin' on a door-knob.”
“Did yu ever see a hen leave th' walks of peace an' bugs an' rustle hell-bent across th' trail plumb in front of a cayuse?” Asked Buck. “They'll leave off rustlin' grub an' become candidates for th' graveyard just for cussedness. Well, a whole lot of men are th' same way. How many times have I seen them swagger into a gin shop an' try to run things sudden an' hard, an' that with half a dozen better men in th' same room? There's shore a-plenty of trouble a-comin' to every man without rustlin' around for more.