"Do I, really, though?" A sort of half-shamed pleasure glowed in his eyes. "Well, you know they're good, companionable fellows, and a man takes on their ways of speech unconsciously. But I didn't think it would be noticed in me so soon. Do I seem like the real thing, honestly, now?"
She reassured him, laughing frankly.
"Well, you needn't laugh. It's all fixed—I'm going to be one."
"But, Clarence, not for long, surely!"
"It's all settled, I tell you. I've bought a ranch, old Swede Peterson's place over on Pine River; corking spot, three half sections under fence and ditch, right at the mouth of a box cañon where nobody can get in above me, plenty of water, plenty of free range close at hand."
"Clarence Bartell, you're—what do you call it?—stringing."
"Not a bit of it. Wait till I come on in about two years, after selling a train load of fat steers at Omaha or Kansas City—sashaying down Fifth Avenue and rounding into Ninth Street with my big hat and long-shanked spurs and a couple of forty-fours booming into the air. You'll see, and won't dad say it's deuced unpleasant!"
"But I'll not believe until I see."
He spoke ruminantly between pulls at the pipe.
"Lots of things to do now, though. Got to go down to Pagosa this week to pay over the money, get the deed, and register my brand. How does 'Bar-B' strike you? Rather neat, yes? It'll make a tasty little monogram on the three hundred critters I start with. I'm on track of a herd of shorthorns already."