He hopped up and down and almost embraced me in his joy.
“Oh, thank you, Mrs. Brook. You see,” he explained, carefully, “I’ve seen people like you and Mr. Brook all my life, but I never had the chance to be with real cow-punchers before.” Evidently, from Ted’s point of view, Owen and I were very commonplace individuals compared to these heroes of the prairie, and I laughed to myself as he bounded down the steps to break the joyful news to Bill that he was to share his bed and board.
The next day we had to go to town to meet some prospective wool buyers, and, after having his breakfast interrupted five different times by Ted’s dashing in to see if we were ready, Owen was moved to inquire finally, “What on earth is on the boy’s mind now?”
“His outfit,” I answered. “He’s been planning it for days; wishes to select it himself and we are not to see it until we get home.”
That was a wise stipulation of Ted’s, for if we had seen it, we should never have been able to get home.
He put it on as soon as we reached the ranch, and when he finally emerged, the flaming sunset paled with chagrin at its futile effort of years.
The “outfit” consisted of tan corduroy trousers, chaps of long silky angora wool, which had been dyed a brilliant orange, a shirt of vivid green, a bright red silk handkerchief for his neck, an enormous Stetson hat, high-heeled tan boots, silver studded belt and huge spurs.
We gasped when we saw him, but he was so intent on showing himself to Bill, as to be utterly unconscious of the effect he produced.
We followed him into the yard where the boys were waiting the call to supper. Bill looked up from the quirt he was braiding and blinked.
“Gosh! I thought the sun had set an hour ago,” he remarked.