“Maybe he has got notions along that line. Probably he’s got some basis for them too. Larry is the sort women like, I judge.”
“What sort is that?” she wanted to know.
“They like a fellow who is gay an’ puts up a good bluff, one who has lots of little laughin’ secrets to whisper to ’em behind his hand when other folks are in the room.”
“You seem to know all about it, Mr. Flanders. Why don’t you write a book about us?”
He refused to be daunted by her sarcasm. “I notice what I notice.”
“And I suppose this Mr. Silcott is really what they call a four-flusher?” she asked.
“Well, no, he ain’t. In his way Larry is a top hand. I ain’t right keen on his way, but that’s a matter of opinion. He’s mighty popular, an’ he delivers the goods. None of the boys can ride a buckin’ bronco with him, onless it’s Rowan McCoy.”
“And who’s he? Another poser?”
Flanders’ answer came instantly and emphatically. “No, ma’am. He’s a genuwine dyed-in-the-wool he-man, Rowan is. If you want to see a real Westerner, one of the best of the breed, why, Rowan McCoy is yore man.”
“Yes—and where is he on exhibit?” she asked lightly.