Governor Barker, M.D., seeing Mr. McLean unexpectedly after several years, hailed the horseman with frank and lively pleasure, and, inquiring who might be the other riders behind, was told that they were Shorty, Chalkeye, and Dollar Bill, come for Christmas. “And dandies to hit town with,” Mr. McLean added. “Redhot.”
“I am acquainted with them,” assented his Excellency.
“We’ve been ridin’ trail for twelve weeks,” the cow-puncher continued, “and the money in our pants is talkin’ joy to us right out loud.”
Then Mr. McLean overflowed with talk and pungent confidences, for the holidays already rioted in his spirit, and his tongue was loosed over their coming rites.
“We’ve soured on scenery,” he finished, in his drastic idiom. “We’re heeled for a big time.”
“Call on me,” remarked the Governor, cheerily, “when you’re ready for bromides and sulphates.”
“I ain’t box-headed no more,” protested Mr. McLean; “I’ve got maturity, Doc, since I seen yu’ at the rain-making, and I’m a heap older than them hospital days when I bust my leg on yu’. Three or four glasses and quit. That’s my rule.”
“That your rule, too?” inquired the Governor of Shorty, Chalkeye, and Dollar Bill. These gentlemen of the saddle were sitting quite expressionless upon their horses.
“We ain’t talkin’, we’re waitin’,” observed Chalkeye; and the three cynics smiled amiably.