“How-dy, pilgrim,” said the spokesman.
“Have you got room in your camp for another person?”
“Oh, yes! There’s plenty of room round here.”
“I’ve got some things in my haversack that may assist you in making out your supper,” said Henderson.
“Well, alight and hitch,” said the spokesman. “There’s plenty of room for your horse here too.”
Henderson dismounted and removed the saddle from his horse, the men with the rifles regarding him suspiciously. When he had thrown his saddle down by the fire, he coolly unhitched his revolver and flung it down beside it; whereupon the men with the rifles drew a long breath of relief, and deposited their weapons beside the trees where they had taken them from. Henderson noticed this, and said, as he made his lariat fast to his horse’s neck:
“You seem to be on the lookout for something. I am a trader.”
“Oh, you are, are you?” said the spokesman.
“Yes. And I have only got a few dollars in my pocket, so that it would be useless for anybody to think of robbing me. I came out here for the purpose of getting some cattle, but I found that the drought was ahead of me. The stock isn’t worth what their hides and tallow would cost. Now,” he added, having driven down his picket pin and seated himself near the fire, “I’d like to know why all you Texans pronounce me a ‘pilgrim’ as soon as you see me. Is there anything about me that reminds you of the States?”
“Well, yes. The way you sit your horse is against you. A Texan does not sit bent over, with his hands on the horn of his saddle, as if he feared that the next step would pitch him overboard. And then those gloves. A Texan doesn’t wear them.”