“Not until morning,” said the man. “You going to the mines?” he resumed to the Virginian.
“Why,” answered the Southerner, slowly and casually, and addressing himself strictly to the man, while Trampas, on his side, paid obvious inattention, “this hyeh delay, yu' see, may unsettle our plans some. But it'll be one of two ways,—we're all goin' to Rawhide, or we're all goin' to Billings. We're all one party, yu' see.”
Trampas laughed audibly inside the door as he rejoined his men. “Let him keep up appearances,” I heard him tell them. “It don't hurt us what he says to strangers.”
“But I'm goin' to eat hearty either way,” continued the Virginian. “And I ain' goin' to be robbed. I've been kind o' promisin' myself a treat if we stopped hyeh.”
“Town's eat clean out,” said the man.
“So yu' tell me. But all you folks has forgot one source of revenue that yu' have right close by, mighty handy. If you have got a gunny sack, I'll show you how to make some money.”
“Bet your life!” said the man.
“Mr. Le Moyne,” said the Virginian, “the outfit's cookin' stuff is aboard, and if you'll get the fire ready, we'll try how frawgs' laigs go fried.” He walked off at once, the man following like a dog. Inside the caboose rose a gust of laughter.
“Frogs!” muttered Scipio. And then turning a blank face to me, “Frogs?”
“Colonel Cyrus Jones had them on his bill of fare,” I said. “'FROGS' LEGS A LA DELMONICO.'”