LARRY GOES CALLING
RUTH and Mrs. Flanders sat on the porch at Elkhorn Lodge and watched a rider descend a hill trail toward the ranch. It was late in the season. Except a hunting party, only a few stray boarders remained, and these would soon take flight for the cities. But in spite of the almanac the day had been hot. Even after sunset it was pleasant outdoors.
The rider announced his coming with song. For a fortnight he had been on the round-up, working sixteen hours a day, and now that it was nearly over he was entitled to sing. The words drifted down to the women on the porch:
“Foot in the stirrup and hand on the horn,
Best damned cowboy that ever was born.”
“It’s Larry Silcott,” announced Mrs. Flanders, brightening. She was a born gossip. When the owner of the Open A N C was with her there was a pair of them present.
“Yes,” assented Ruth. She had known for some moments that the approaching rider was Larry.
He offered for their entertainment another selection.
“Sift along, boys, don’t ride so slow.
Haven’t got much time but a long round to go.