In the caboose of the cattle-train sat a cowboy, humped over on a bench, holding his face in his hands. His broad shoulders twisted painfully and he gave vent to a withering curse when the caboose almost jerked him off the bench.
On the opposite side of the car sat a tall, lean-faced cowboy, his sad gray eyes contemplating the sufferer, who lifted his head, disclosing a swollen jaw. Two other cowboys were seated on the floor of the car, resting their backs against the side-seats, while they industriously shot craps for dimes.
“Hurt yuh pretty bad, Sleepy?” asked the tall cowboy.
The sufferer lifted his head, nodded slowly and inserted a big forefinger inside his mouth.
“Wursh a glew har glog daged dantist libed.”
He removed the finger, spat painfully and took his face in both hands again. “Sleepy” Stevens was suffering the pangs of an aching molar. “Hashknife” Hartley, the tall, lean cowboy, nodded understandingly.
“It’s worse than I thought, Sleepy,” he said, his voice full of sympathy. “You’ve got what they call a Eskimo abscess.”
“Huh? How do yuh know?”
“I can tell by yore talk—pure Eskimo.”
“A-a-a-aw! If you had this tooth⸺”