The Color of His Boots

by W. C. Tuttle

“What in?” he grunts. “In your huh-hat.”

“Like ——! In my new Stetson? Not any milk, thanks. Give me your hat, Magpie.”

“Lost it. You danged— Sh-h-h-h!”

Then we heard footsteps approaching on horseback. Up that line fence comes some indistinct shapes. We hears the creak of saddles, and then somebody curses a loose cinch. They stops right near to us, and we holds the cow and our breaths.

“Can’t do much until daylight,” opines a voice. “Never catch anything busting around in the dark.”

“Ain’t you got that cinch fixed yet, Mort?” asks another voice.

“Wa-a-a-a-a!”

We hears a couple of broncs move quick. Somebody swears.

“What in made that noise?” grunts somebody.

“Rabbit, I reckon,” chuckles the feller who is fixing his cinch. “You’re a fine posse. Like a nervous bunch of old women. Well, let’s go.”