"Yes, of course."
"'Cause Mexico has been about the only place a puncher could work that long without doin' day labor on foot half the year. Yes, I been there. 'Course, now, I'm doin' high finance, and givin' advice to the young, and livin' on my income. And say, when it comes to real brain work, I'm the Most Exhausted Baked High Potentate, but I wouldn't do no mineral labor for nobody. If I can't work in the saddle, I don't work—that's all."
"Mineral labor? What, mining?" asked Louise.
"No, not mining. Jest mineral labor like Japs, or section-hands, or coachmen with bugs on their hats. Ain't the papers always speakin' of that kind as minerals?"
"Don't you mean menials?"
"Well, yes. It's all the same, anyway. I never do no hair-splittin' on words. Bein' a pote myself, it ain't necessary."
"A—a poet! Really?"
"Really and truly, and carry one and add five. I've roped a lot of po'try in my time, Miss. Say, are we campin' on your land?"
"No. This is government land, from here to our line up above—the Moonstone Rancho."
"The Moonstone Rancho?" queried Overland Red, breaking a twig and feeding the fire.