Two days after this I joined one of the roundup camps at sunset. They had been working from Salt Creek to Bear Creek, and the Taylor ranch was in visiting distance from them again, after an interval of gathering and branding far across the country. The Virginian, the gentle-voiced Southerner, whom I had last seen lingering with Miss Wood, was in camp. Silent three-quarters of the time, as was his way, he sat gravely watching Lin McLean. That person seemed silent also, as was not his way quite so much.
“Lin,” said the Southerner, “I reckon you're failin'.”
Mr. McLean raised a sombre eye, but did not trouble to answer further.
“A healthy man's laigs ought to fill his pants,” pursued the Virginian. The challenged puncher stretched out a limb and showed his muscles with young pride.
“And yu' cert'nly take no comfort in your food,” his ingenious friend continued, slowly and gently.
“I'll eat you a match any day and place yu' name,” said Lin.
“It ain't sca'cely hon'able,” went on the Virginian, “to waste away durin' the round-up. A man owes his strength to them that hires it. If he is paid to rope stock he ought to rope stock, and not leave it dodge or pull away.”
“It's not many dodge my rope,” boasted Lin, imprudently.
“Why, they tell me as how that heifer of the Sidney-Nebraska brand got plumb away from yu', and little Tommy had to chase afteh her.”
Lin sat up angrily amid the laughter, but reclined again. “I'll improve,” said he, “if yu' learn me how yu' rope that Vermont stock so handy. Has she promised to be your sister yet?” he added.