“Gee-whiz!” he cried, scrambling about in a mad wrestle with the Mexican. “Durn yer old greaser soul! gee-mini, cry-mini! Hooray! dog-gon me ef it ain’t Pedro!”
The rifles were lowered and the horsemen stared aghast. Surprised, astounded, they sat wondering, neither stirring or speaking. Meanwhile the American and Mexican scrambled about in their wild and friendly wrestle, overwhelming each other with their joyful buffets, and light hugs. To a stranger it would have seemed a struggle of death as the guide cursed roundly and bestowed epithets without number upon his long-absent friend, many too coarse, even foul, to be presented here.
At last, from sheer inability to further continue, they relaxed their clutches, and drawing back a pace, stood looking the other over from head to foot—they were rare friends.
“Cimarron Jack,” said the guide, “here’s the sharpest, ’cutest, patientest man in the kentry. Durn yer braggin’ eyes, git off of yer hoss and greet him.”
“Pedro Felipe!” cried Jack, dismounting, “you are a greaser, but a first-class fellow I’ve heard. Shake the vice of the cock of the walk and the terror of the grizzlies. Put your hand there, you villain.”
“Cimarron Jack, I, too, have heard of you frequently, as a boasting, vaunting knave, with more tongue than strength or brains. I hope you will die with your boots on,” replied Pedro, shaking his hand cordially. That introduction would be considered formal and cold a few miles north-west—in California, where every man greets a stranger with an oath and an evident insult. However, these two men were polite and gentlemanly, and either would have regarded as an insult any more polite greeting.
“Where did you come from, Pedro?” asked Jack. “Darn me, I was scared—I was for a fact.”
“Out of the hill yonder.”
“Glory hallelujurrum! there is a hole. What in the name of Cimarron Jack the thorough-bred from Bitter Creek, were you doing in there?”
Pedro pointed to the mustang, Dimple, grazing at a distance. “Do you see that mustang?” he asked.