The ranchmen looked curiously at one another, and Tracy evasively remarked, "Well, he didn't say much; just said he got lonesome and had left the old woman without any wood an' allowed he'd cut some for her, then he'd go back byme-by."
"Yes, byme-by," scornfully broke in Jack, adding, with some feeling, "Between me and the corral that trapper is afraid of the Utes and left me in the lurch."
Tracy and Bill exchanged glances, as much as to say, "The tenderfoot has got his eye-teeth cut all right." Bill spoke up as if a sudden impulse had made him forget the dangers that lurked in the Ute question.
"How about that redskin g—g—gal? Tho't mebbe so y—y—yer hed jined in holy wedlock into the Ute family," at which both the ranchmen slapped their hands together and laughed uproariously. Jack joined in with them, for he appreciated the gossip of ranch life, and no sewing bee ever furnished better "stamping ground" for wagging tongues than the frontier masculine brand.
Bill set about getting something to eat, and Jack had a double-barreled appetite stowed away under his belt. The table, with its marble oilcloth, real stone china plates, cups, saucers, glass vinegar cruets and a molasses jug, was soon loaded with a big platter of venison, a plate of hot biscuits, a pot of coffee, a pitcher of rich cream and a crock of yellow butter. It was nearly three months since Jack had put his legs under any kind of a table or seen anything the color of butter or cream, and it was a treat that could not have been equaled in Delmonico's to draw up to that feast with those truly honest brothers of wild civilization, partake of their hospitality and listen to their straightforward talk, rich in its omission of studied rhetoric or ponderous grammatical phrases; no fear of using the wrong spoon or creating a social riot by helping one's self to a little venison gravy, even sopping the bread in the platter. Etiquette, frills and napkins had to give way to blunt speech, solid, wholesome food and a red bandanna. Back of it all, too, was his famous digestion and ravenous appetite, essential elements that have no co-existence with spike-tailed coats, trained gowns, "eye-openers" and "night caps." Jack had been busy, but he slowed down long enough to let out his belt one hole. Bill had entertained in the conversation direction.
"Say, yer know when yer shot the antelope and Irish Mike got sore at it because he missed the whole bunch? Well, old man Snyder come in with his team last October after a load of fish, and we got up the old raft and dropped the net into the bend of the river right there and dragged out over a thousand fine suckers at one haul. We threw back all under two pounds and a half."
Jack broke in with the remark, "Those red-finned suckers are most as good as trout."
"Yer bet yer life they are," chimed in Tracy.
"Well," continued Bill, "the old man and his boy was a watchin' us from the other bank, so we hed to be sort o' careful as we picked them fish over, but there was five as pretty red-throated trout clum up my coat sleeve as ever yer laid eyes on; two of 'em tipped the scales at five pounds apiece. We had trout to eat fer a week. Gosh all humlock, but it was cold work gettin' them suckers ready. We worked 'til most midnight. They cleaned up about six hundred dollars on the load. Sold 'em in Georgetown, Central City, Idaho Springs—yes, sir, clean down to Golden. The first of 'em brought forty cents a pound in the big camps, but the last end of 'em went fer a nickel apiece. Down at McQueery's they got another load for some other chaps a month after; pulled in over seventeen hundred fish at one clip, but them fellers didn't know how to peddle them out and lost money by shippin' 'em to Denver."
"How's the stock, Tracy?" inquired Jack.