“O-Oh––” he began, and then he stopped with his mouth open. The rodéo boss had suddenly risen to an upright position and fixed him with his eye.
“I like to see you boys enjoyin’ yourselves,” he observed, quietly, “but please don’t discuss politics or religion while them ladies is over at the house. You better switch off onto ‘My Bonnie Lies over the Ocean,’ Bill.” And Bill switched.
“What’s the matter?” he demanded aggrieved, “ain’t anybody but you got any rights and privileges around here? You go sportin’ around and havin’ a good time all day, but as soon as one of us punchers opens his mouth you want to jump down his throat. What do we know about ladies––I ain’t seen none!”
The discussion of the moral code which followed was becoming acrimonious and personal to a degree when a peal of girlish laughter echoed from the ranch house and the cowboys beheld Judge Ware 245 and Hardy, accompanied by Miss Lucy and Kitty Bonnair, coming towards their fire. A less tactful man might have taken advantage of the hush to utter a final word of warning to his rebellious subjects, but Creede knew Kitty Bonnair and the human heart too well. As the party came into camp he rose quietly and introduced the judge and the ladies to every man present, without deviation and without exception, and then, having offered Miss Ware his cracker box, he moved over a man or two and sat down.
In the bulk of his mighty frame, the rugged power of his countenance, and the unconscious authority of his words he was easily master of them all; but though he had the voice of Mars and a head like Olympian Zeus he must needs abase his proud spirit to the demands of the occasion, for the jealousy of mortal man is a proverb. Where the punchers that he hired for thirty dollars a month were decked out in shaps and handkerchiefs he sat in his shirt-sleeves and overalls, with only his high-heeled boots and the enormous black sombrero which he always wore, to mark him for their king. And the first merry question which Miss Kitty asked he allowed to pass unnoticed, until Bill Lightfoot––to save the credit of the bunch––answered it himself.
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied politely. “That was a genuwine cowboy song we was singin’––we sing ’em to keep the cattle awake at night.”
“Oh, how interesting!” exclaimed Kitty, leaning forward in her eagerness. “But why do you try to keep them awake? I should think they would be so tired, after travelling all day.”
“Yes, ma’am,” responded Bill, twisting his silk handkerchief nervously, “but if they go to sleep and anything wakes ’em up quick they stompede––so we ride through ’em and sing songs.”
“Just think of that, Lucy!” cried Miss Kitty enthusiastically. “And it was such a pretty tune, too! Won’t you sing it again, Mr. Lightfoot? I’d just love to hear it!”