He looked around rather expectantly, and raised his chin higher, throwing back his head.
“I’m Rearin’ Bill of Big Buck Hill!” he shouted. “I’m two yards wide and nine feet high—Woo-who-o! Woo-who-o!”
At that shout—“Woo-who-o!”—men, standing at every bar around the square and all the way down to the Claybank Delight, turned and glanced at one another.
“’Tain’t Texas!” One shook his head. “That’d be e-yeow-w!”
“’Tain’t Prairie—hit’d be Hi-i-i-i!”
“’Tain’t Rebel—’tain’t Yank.” An old veteran shook his head.
“’Tain’t old Mississip’ shanty boat landing whoop er soundin’ hail.”
“Ner mule skinnin’ cowboy—none of them!” another declared.
“That’s green timber!” a square shouldered, high headed man remarked as he turned a sheet of a weekly paper in the lobby of Squint Legere’s hotel.
“My lan’! He’s bad!” A bystander shook his head. “Y’ c’n tell that—the way he growls— My lan’!”