We started on the tenth of February, Promotheus ridin’ a quiet old hoss, an’ still lookin’ purty much like a bitter recollection. They were consid’able surprised when we arrived at the Diamond Dot; but we only told ’em as much of our huntin’ as we felt was necessary.
Horace intended to start for the East at once; but next day when he put on his dude clothes again, Promotheus purty nigh bucked on him. Most of Horace’s raiment was summer stuff, nachely; but he had a long checked coat ’at he wore with a double ended cap, which certainly did look comical. He had cut some fat off his middle, an’ had pushed out his chest an’ shoulders consid’able; so that his stuff wrinkled on him; and it took a full hour to harden Promotheus to the change.
“Do I have to look like that?” sez he.
“You conceited ape you!” sez Horace. “You couldn’t look like this if you went to a beauty doctor for the rest o’ time; but as soon as we get where they sell clothes for humans, I’m goin’ to provide you with somethin’ in the nature of a disguise.”
Disguise sounded mighty soothin’ to Promotheus, so he gritted his teeth, an’ said he wouldn’t go back on his word. The fact was, that it did give ya an awful shock to see Horace as he formerly was. We had got so used to seein’ him gettin’ about, able an’ free, that it almost seemed like a funeral to have him drop down to those clothes again.
The Friar went over to the station with us, and he an’ Horace had a confidential talk; and then Horace and Promotheus got on the train and scampered off East.
“I’m goin’ to stick right here, Happy,” sez the Friar. “I have let my work get way behind, in tendin’ to Promotheus; but from now on I’m goin’ to tie into it again. I’d like to do something to put the cattle men and the sheep men on better terms; but this seems like a hard problem.”
“Yes,” sez I, “that ain’t no job for a preacher, and I’d advise you to let it alone. The cattle men will put up the same sort of an argument for their range ’at the Injuns did; but between you and me, I doubt if they stand much more show in the long run.”
“I can’t see why there isn’t room for both,” sez the Friar. “It seems to me that the cattle men are too harsh.”
“Nope,” sez I, “there ain’t room for ’em both, an’ the’s somethin’ irritatin’ about sheep that makes ya want to be harsh with all who have dealin’s with ’em. Hosses can starve out cattle an’ sheep can starve out hosses; but after a sheep has grazed over a place, nothin’ bigger ’n an ant can find any forage left. Cattle are wild an’ tempestus, an’ they bellow an’ tear around an’ fight, and the men who tend ’em are a good bit like ’em; while sheep just meekly take whatever you’ve a mind to give ’em; but they hang on, just the same, an’ multiply a heap faster ’n cattle do. A sheep man is meek—like a Jew. If a Jew gets what he wants he’s satisfied, an’ he’s willin’ to pertend ’at he’s had the worst o’ the deal; but a cattle man is never satisfied unless he has grabbed what he wanted away from some one else, an’ then shot him up a little for kickin’ about it. It’ll probably be fifty or a hundred years yet, before the sheep men are strong enough to worry the cattle men; but they’ll sure do it some day.” That’s what I told the Friar that time at the station, an’ I guessed the outcome close enough, though I didn’t make much of a hit as to the time it was goin’ to take.