“It’s my note, Mister Wheeler. If I want to tune my own note⸺”
“I was merely quoting Shakespeare,” says the lady.
“Giddap, broncs!” says Art Wheeler, and we rocked on into Piperock.
I’ll tell you right here and now; beauty ain’t even skin deep in Piperock. We’ve got wimmin folks—that is, some has—but nobody ever kidnaped any of ’em.
If they belonged to me I’d trust ’em with any man.
There’s Mrs. “Wick” Smith, who jars the hay-scales to two hundred and seventy-five, and wheezes plentiful. Art Wheeler’s better half tasted of life and found it sour, and never got the acid out of her system. Mrs. “Testament” Tilton looks upward for guidance in all matters except when it comes to flattering Testament’s head with a skillet. When Mrs. Pete Gonyer is in sight, Pete’s voice sinks seventeen inches below a whisper. Somebody remarks one day that Pete’s kinda henpecked.
“Henpecked, ⸺!” says Pete. “Orstrich—if there ain’t nothin’ bigger what wears feathers.”
Mrs. Steele, the wife of our legal light, is six feet two inches tall, and she’s always oratin’ about the sanctity of the home, whatever that is. One cinch, the prize never hands down any decisions in his own home.
Mrs. Sam Holt goes through life worrying about somebody alienating the affections of old Sam, who can barely hear himself yell, and has to eat his spuds mashed or miss the taste of ’em.
There’s the Mudgett sisters, who must ’a’ been the originals of the first cartoon of “Miss Democracy.” Cupid would have to use a .30-30 if he went to work for them. Scattered around the range is a occasional female, but nothing that you’d bet your money on in a beauty contest. Annie Schmidt is cooking for the Triangle outfit, but the same don’t seem to cause any of the other ranches to go short of help.