"Goin'."
"'Bout seventy-three miles, but there's nothin' doin' there. Worse'n this."
"Looks like me for a job, or the next rattler goin' west. Any chanct for a cook here?"
"Nope. All Mexican cooks. But say, I reckon you might tie up over to the Concho. Hearn tell that Jack Corliss wants a cook. Seems his ole stand-by Hi Wingle's gone to Phoenix on law business. Jack's a good boss to tie to. Worked for him myself."
"How far to his place?" queried Sundown.
"Sixty miles, straight south."
"Gee Gosh! Looks like the towns was scared of each other in this here country. Who'd you say raises them frijoles?"
The cowboy laughed and slapped Sundown on the back. "Come on, Bud! You eat with me this trip."
Western humor, accentuated by alcohol, is apt to broaden rapidly in proportion to the quantity of liquor consumed. After a given quantity has been consumed—varying with the individual—Western humor broadens without regard to proportion of any kind.
The jovial puncher, having enjoyed Sundown's society to the extent of six-bits' worth of Mexican provender, suggested a return to "The Last Chance," where the tramp was solemnly introduced to a newly arrived coterie of thirsty riders of the mesas. Gaunt and exceedingly tall, he loomed above the heads of the group in the barroom "like a crane in a frog-waller," as one cowboy put it. "Which ain't insinooatin' that our hind legs is good to eat, either," remarked another. "He keeps right on smilin'," asserted the first speaker. "And takin' his smile," said the other. "Wonder what's his game? He sure is the lonesomest-lookin' cuss this side of that dead pine on Bald Butte, that I ever seen." But conviviality was the order of the evening, and the punchers grouped together and told and listened to jokes, old and new, talked sagebrush politics, and threw dice for the privilege of paying rather than winning. "Says he's scoutin' for a job cookin'," remarked a young cowboy to the main group of riders. "Heard him tell Johnny."