“Don’t you all wear these?” asked Roy, anxiously.
“They would if they could,” answered Mrs. Weston, depositing the meat platter and turning to survey the boy. “An’ yo’ ain’t got a thing on yo’ that ‘Sink’ wouldn’t be tickled to own. Look at him—it’s reediclus.”
Roy looked. Mr. Weston still wore the same soiled white shirt, or one like it. A black silk handkerchief encircled his neck. It was knotted in front, while Roy’s was fastened behind as he had seen in the pictures. Mr. Weston wore no coat, and his white shirt-sleeves were held up by blue elastic bands. Never had Roy seen such things in cowboy pictures. But the man’s blue clothes had been exchanged for a dark vest and a pair of close fitting black trousers. The vest was unbuttoned, and one side of it sagged with the weight of a silver watch chain. The trousers disappeared into a pair of worn, unpolished boots. But here the shattering of the young tenderfoot’s ideals paused. Those boots! They were wrinkled and crinkled in true cattleman style; the heels tapered like a woman’s French slipper and jangling about the insteps were two as ornate spurs as any artist ever drew.
And, best of all, there was the “gun.” The belt was not as new as Roy’s and the revolver was not an automatic-carbine, but it was there.
“That sartin must a cost ye quite a bit,” was Mr. Weston’s comment. “An’ don’t yo’ mind ef some one tries to guy yo’. Yer all O. K. Ye don’t need nuthin’ but to git the new off. An’ I’ll guarantee to do that afore we git to Bluff.”
“Where can I get a pair of spurs?” asked the boy.
“Oh, ye kin git ’em anywhar—best place over to the drug store. But Nigger don’t need no spurs—leastways on a little jant like this.”
By twenty minutes after five o’clock breakfast was over, and Roy had started for the barn, a few blocks away, with his suit case, Mr. Weston offering to bring Nigger. At five thirty old Dan’s wagon drew out of the barn. Incidentally, Mrs. Weston found a five-dollar bill under Roy’s place after her husband left.
Roy was glad enough to find few men on the street when it came time to mount Nigger.
“Don’t be afeerd,” exclaimed Mr. Weston. “Nigger ain’t no trained bucker fur no Wild West show. She’s a cow pony. All ye got to do is not to argey with her. She knows more about sartin things ’an you do, an’ when yo’ an’ she don’t agree, yo’ let her hev her way. Whatever she does, they’s a reason fur. Don’t be afeerd.”