As they gathered about the fire on that last night it was a silent company––the rodéo boss the gloomiest of them all. Not since the death of Tommy had his eyes twinkled with the old mischief; he had no bets to offer, no news to volunteer; a dull, sombre abstraction lay upon him like a pall. Only when Bill Lightfoot spoke did he look up, and then with a set sneer, growing daily more saturnine. The world was dark to Creede and Bill’s fresh remarks jarred on him––but Bill himself was happy. He was of the kind that runs by opposites, taking their troubles with hilarity under the impression that they are philosophers. His pretext for this present happiness was a professed interview with Kitty Bonnair 358 on the evening that the town herd pulled into Moreno’s. What had happened at this interview was a secret, of course, but it made Bill happy; and the more morose and ugly Jeff became about it the more it pleased Lightfoot to be gay. He sat on a box that night and sang risqué ditties, his enormous Colt’s revolver dangling bravely at his hip; and at last, casting his weather eye upon Creede, he began a certain song.
| “Oh, my little girl, she lives in the town––” |
And then he stopped.
“Bill,” said the rodéo boss feelingly, “you make me tired.”
“Lay down an’ you’ll git rested, then,” suggested Lightfoot.
| “A toodle link, a toodle link, a too-oodle a day.” |
“I’ll lay you down in a minute, if you don’t shut up,” remarked Creede, throwing away his cigarette.
“The hell you say,” commented Lightfoot airily.
| “And last time I seen her she ast me to come down.” |
At this raw bit of improvisation the boss rose slowly to his feet and stalked away from temptation.