"Well, it's right sad. He looks like a pretty decent hombre."
"What's sad?" queried Cheyenne belligerently.
"Why, gettin' that tenderfoot all shot up, trailin' a couple of twenty-dollar cayuses. They ain't worth it."
"They ain't, eh?"
"Course, they make a right good audience, when you're singin'. They do all the listenin'," said another puncher.
"Huh! They ain't one of you got a hoss that can listen to you, without blushin'. You fellas think you're a hard-ridin'--"
"Ridin' beats walkin'," suggested Long Lon.
"Keep a-joshin'. I like it. Shows how much you don't know. I--hello, Mr. Bartley! Shake hands with Lon Pelly--but I guess you met him, over to Antelope. You needn't to mind the rest of these guys. They're harmless."
"I don't want to interrupt--" began Bartley.
"Set right in!" they invited in chorus. "We're just listenin' to Cheyenne preachin' his own funeral sermon."