“Sho, now,” said Len Hersey. “Now look at that! He must of got his horns jarred loose, like, in some night run in the timber. I’ve knowed that to happen.”
“Len,” commanded Nabours, “I don’t want no more of this damned foolishness. Here’s ten dollars, and that’s enough to buy you a shirt, and I want to see you do it. He’ll only play the rest at monte or faro or something,” turning to Pattison.
“No, give it all to him,” the latter rejoined. “It’s his. Let him play it. I’ve done as much myself when I was younger. And monte’s a cinch compared to buying and packing and shipping cattle to the East.”
They turned and rode toward town, young in the youth of the open range, where to-morrow did not yet loom.
| [1] | The foundation of this anecdote is to be found in Saunder’s Trail Drivers of Texas. |
CHAPTER XLIII
LOU GORE
“COME right on in, you poor child.” When Taisie Lockhart first had climbed down from the lofty cart seat and approached the front door of the Drovers’ Cottage, she walked straight into the arms of sturdy Lou Gore, matron of the first cowman’s hotel of the North and Florence Nightingale of the frontier. That good soul took the girl to her bosom, patting her shoulder like a mother. “My!” she exclaimed. “To think at first I might have took you for a boy!”
When they entered the door she felt her young charge wince, draw back. A tall young man stood in the office near the door. It seemed to Lou Gore that these two must somewhere have met, although she scarce heard the voice of either now as they saluted, acknowledged.
“Why, you knew that gentleman?” she asked later.