“Ticket to Denver,” said Jim.
“Make it two,” shouted the ex-dogman, reaching for his inside pocket.
VII.
THE CHAMPION OF THE WEATHER
If you should speak of the Kiowa Reservation to the average New Yorker he probably wouldn’t know whether you were referring to a new political dodge at Albany or a leitmotif from “Parsifal.” But out in the Kiowa Reservation advices have been received concerning the existence of New York.
A party of us were on a hunting trip in the Reservation. Bud Kingsbury, our guide, philosopher, and friend, was broiling antelope steaks in camp one night. One of the party, a pinkish-haired young man in a correct hunting costume, sauntered over to the fire to light a cigarette, and remarked carelessly to Bud:
“Nice night!”
“Why, yes,” said Bud, “as nice as any night could be that ain’t received the Broadway stamp of approval.”
Now, the young man was from New York, but the rest of us wondered how Bud guessed it. So, when the steaks were done, we besought him to lay bare his system of ratiocination. And as Bud was something of a Territorial talking machine he made oration as follows:
“How did I know he was from New York? Well, I figured it out as soon as he sprung them two words on me. I was in New York myself a couple of years ago, and I noticed some of the earmarks and hoof tracks of the Rancho Manhattan.”
“Found New York rather different from the Panhandle, didn’t you, Bud?” asked one of the hunters.