“You bet I quit.”
“But you aint fired. Tex does the firing in this outfit, and you can stay till your feet drop off.”
“Then I fire myself. ‘Brute’ and ‘ladies’ man,’ am I? I know when I got enough, and I’m plump sick o’ ridin’. There’s no thanks to it. There’s nothin’ to show but saddle-corns and rheumatics and a bad reputation. What’s a puncher, outside o’ story papers? Yep, I’ve made up my mind. I’ll quit at the shippin’-pens, when I aint needed. I aim to sell my saddle and straighten out my legs, and never ride no more. Mebbe I can live on my income,” he dourly added.
“Aw, Laramie!”
“I’ve said it. If you’re goin’ to talk, you can talk about the weather.”
This evening the 77 camped by themselves, for the outland guests had left. After supper Laramie waddled over to sit beside Tex and put an important question.
“How much’ll I have comin’ to me, Tex, when you pay off?”
“Where?”
“At the shippin’-pens. We draw our money when we strike town at the end of the drive, don’t we?”
“Shorely. You needn’t worry about that. You’ll get your share, unless you want me to hold back.”