“But I’m talking about a trade …”
“How could I drive the team?”
“You don’t need them like I do …”
“Besides,” Luke tucked his feet back under the bench, “Mulge give me these boots. For my birthday. We drove clear to Daisy — that was beyond Clare and over the line — to pick them out.”
“But look here!” Quickly Camper reached under the table, fumbled, and pulled up a yellow sandal. “I mean to trade!” He gave it to Luke.
And after a moment: “That’s different.” Luke held it forth to the dim colored lights meant for the skirt-high dance. “It sure is.”
“Go ahead. Try it on.”
The cowboy studied first one sandal then the other, felt the white rope soles and yellow leather thongs that crisscrossed the foot from toe to ankle. Weighing a soft piece of beachwear in either hand he called again over his shoulder, “Don’t you worry about me, Sam.”
“Here,” whispered Lou’s husband, “just let me feel one of those steerhorns …”
“Leave that boot alone. I ain’t done looking.”