That which the diners saw was two damsels fabulously appareled and glowing with innocent curiosity, the young sprig in dude rig of riding-breeches and natty flannel shirt and polished puttees, the elder man caparisoned to similar “sporting” effect and manifesting an important strut, aggravated, perhaps, by the bondage of the flesh.
It was one world imposed upon another.
Here, then, was the 77 owner, from the East, evidently to see how his—his cows and men were stacking up! Had brought his friends or family (“tourists,” in any guise) to the show; and first they were watching the “animals” eat.
“Oh, how romantic!” breathed one of the damsels, lips parted.
“Oh, hell!” murmured man to man.
Dignified as “Mr. Matthews” by virtue of his office, Tex acted host. The party seated themselves. The somewhat flustered cook, Tex assisting with the utensils, proceeded to serve from his cow-camp menu.
The 77 stoically swigged and champed. At last—
“All right, boys.” Tex had spoken from his feet. The horse-herd was in, confined by its rope corral. With creaking of joints the men rose from their post-prandial cigarettes, to take down their ropes from their saddles and to stump on to snare their afternoon mounts.
No joints protested more than those of Laramie,—“Laramie Red,”—who had been riding a hard-bitted horse all the morning and was due, he knew, to fork Old Thunder this afternoon.
The horses of one’s string, however, should be ridden turn about. Consequently Laramie flicked his noose for Old Thunder; and at the clap of the hemp around his neck, Old Thunder followed the trend of the rope. A mild-in-appearance, fly-bitten roan, he, with a sleepy eye—but with Roman nose and aggressive chocky head wherein obstinacy had its dwelling-place.