How he had escaped the men who had surrounded the place, and how he had found his way to our ranch were questions no one could answer.
The first intimation of his presence came in the form of a wild yell from the tailor, who had gotten up early and gone down to the corral to feed his horses. This brought all the men to the bunk house door as the terror-stricken little Jew flung himself into their arms.
“Mein Gott! Dot crazy man iss here.”
“You’re the only crazy man on this ranch,” said Bill, taking him by the collar and giving him a shake. “What ails you, anyhow?”
“Oh, he iss here, he iss here,” wailed the tailor. “He ain’t got on no clothes, and we’ll all be kilt.” The boys left him and went out to investigate.
It was true. La Monte was there, and after a futile effort on Bill’s part to get him to talk the boys retired to the bunk house and sent for Owen.
“Gee,” Bill said later, “that feller was the doggondest lookin’ thing I ever seen, settin’ there in what was left of his shirt. His legs was all tore by the fence wires or brambles, his teeth was chatterin’ and he was just blue with cold. His eyes had a look in ’em that give me the shivers. I don’t wonder he scart that there Jew into a fit. I wasn’t very anxious to come clost to him, neither. I ain’t scart of anything that’s human, but he ain’t human, goin’ ’round folks dressed like that.” Bill was a stickler for convention.
“That’s the first thing a person usually does when he goes crazy, Bill—takes off all his clothes.”
Bill gave me an incredulous look.
“Gosh, I hope I’ll be killed ridin’ or somethin’ and not lose my mind first. It ain’t decent.”