BY MAC A'RONY.
I'll say of it
It tutors nature: artificial strife
Lives in these touches, livelier than life.
Pod was always looking for trouble. The fellow who courts trouble finds it sooner or later. I brayed myself hoarse trying to persuade my reckless master to give Rangely a wide berth. He couldn't think of it. He was anxious to meet real wild-and-woolly-west cowboys of the old-time style; he didn't fear the worst of 'em.
"Hit the trail, there, Mac," he said, spurring me toward the hotbed of cowboy rascality. Arriving at the house-saloon-store-city-hall-business-headquarters of Rangely, the dozen rough-looking men lounging about swaggered toward us, pleased-like and curious.
"Prospectin'?" one inquired.
"N-o-o-o," Pod drawled; "just traveling." That was the time in Pod's life when he ought to have lied. Then he explained where he was from, and where he was bound, but did not say that he was a darn fool. The cowboys grunted, or nodded, or smiled, some winked to each other, and one of 'em nudged another in the ribs; everything they did had a deep meaning. I began to tremble for Pod. Would they shoot at his heels and make him dance? Or make him ride a bucking bronco? Or what?
"Better feed yer jacks, Mister," said one; "ye'll find grain in th' shed yender." Pod seemed to be as delighted as we donks.