But the country wa’n’t to blame.
Comparing him with growed-up men,
Who rode the Sawtooth Hills,
He looked like a pewter nickel
In a bunch of green-back bills.”
“Yah-h-h-h!” shrills Scenery. “You’re sore ’cause you wasn’t elected to the committee. Lard!”
Scenery puts all the venom in his system into that last word, and at the finish his voice would have split a cigaret paper. As he makes his greasy statement his right boot snaps up to horizontal, and Muley’s loop gets him around the ankle.
It sure was one beautiful and speedy piece of rope work, and the next minute Scenery is on his shoulders in the corral, with his right foot snubbed high and handsome to the top of a corral post.
Muley lights his cigaret and climbs down the other side.
“The committee will have to turn him loose,” he states. “I won’t pollute my hands by touching him. I reckon the acid in his measly little carcass will ruin that metal hondo before he gets loose, but it’s worth it.”