Sandy, a product of O Bar O, let forth a typical string of hot cusses, while the Englishman grinned down upon him.
“What the hell you doin’ sittin’ on our grass?” finished Sandy shrilly. “What cha want at our ranch?”
“Oh, I say! Is this a rawnch then?”
He turned a questioning eager gaze upon the foreman, who now sat with right leg resting across the pummel of the saddle, studying their visitor in puzzled silence. After a moment, having spat and transferred his plug from the left to the right cheek, Bully Bill replied through the corner of his mouth.
“You betchour life this ain’t no rawnch. Ain’t no rawnches this side o’ the river. They ranch on this side.”
The other looked unenlightened, and Bully Bill condescended further explanation, with a flicker of a wink at the delighted Sandy.
“Yer see, it’s like this. On the south side of the river, there’s a sight of them English “dooks” and earls and lords and princes. They play at rawnching, doncherknow. On the north side, we’re the real cheese. We’re out to raise beef. We ranch!”
Having delivered this explanation of things in the cattle country, Bully Bill, well pleased with himself, dropped his foot back into his stirrup and saluted the Englishman condescendingly:
“Here’s lookin’ at you!” he said, and gently pressed his heel into his horse’s side.
“I say——!”