"Sufferin' comets!" said Bill, when he could get his breath; "look who's here! Well, if thet ain't a hot sketch, I never seen one!" And Bill again went off into another peal of laughter. Injun was not at all disturbed, but proceeded to take his seat at the table with solemn dignity, and reach out for whatever he saw before him that he felt he would like to eat.
"Ain't yo' got a silk hat, Mr. Sherwood?" asked Bill, as well as he could, between fits of laughing. "Ef this here bird-o'-Paradise jes' had a plug-hat onto him now, he'd be the belle o' the ball fer fair! Ef them boys out t' th' corral ever gits a flash at this here galliwumpus, I couldn't git no work out 'n 'em fer a week! They'd fall down on their face an' die a-laffin'! An' yet, I ain't got the heart t' deny 'em a peek at it! He's got a peacock lookin' like a dirty deuce in a clean deck, an' 't ain't ever' day the's a ontamed hero wanderin' 'round in pink pants, makin' his début inta sassiety, an' givin' folks a treat!"
Mr. Sherwood, convulsed as he was, signaled to Bill to let Injun go through with it, and Bill nodded understandingly. He tried to finish his coffee, but another look at Injun caused him to choke and swallow it the wrong way, so he rose hurriedly from the table and made his way out to the corral as well as he could.
In due course Injun and Whitey made their appearance at the corral, and any serious attempt to describe the scene would be idle. If it had been any one but Injun, who had more than ever endeared himself to the boys by his performances of the day before, it is doubtful if they would have ever let up. Injun took it all in good part, being supremely satisfied with himself. Mr. Sherwood, however, voiced this apprehension: "I don't know as we ought to let the boy wear those things out on the range—how do you think some of the cattle will regard that flaming get-up?"
"Well," said Bill, "outside o' them pore, dumb critters being plumb scairt t' death an' mebbe stampedin', I reckon I wouldn't worry none. Ef yo' was thinkin' 'bout thet Injun kid, from what I've saw of him, I figger he kin take care of hisself in 'bout any fix he's li'ble to git inta. It's them cattle as has a worry comin' to 'em! 'Tain't playin' square t' spring no sech chromatic outrage on them innercent an' do-cile animals an' git 'em all het up with runnin'!" Bill grinned, and then added, after he had thought a moment, "Mebbe it'd sort o' discourage this here aboriginal Aztec from sportin' them sartorial embellishments 'f I was t' git him to lead out thet little black devil of a bull inta the corral. We prob'bly might mebbe see some o' them torreador stunts them Greasers pulls down't Mexico City! How 'bout it?"
Mr. Sherwood promptly put a veto on this, although there is little doubt that Injun would have tackled the job, well knowing the danger that it entailed. The black bull was bad enough without anything to irritate him, but being led by an Indian in pink pyjamas was more than any self-respecting bull could be expected to stand.
And so it came about that Injun wore the pink pyjamas until they were reduced to rags and were on the point of falling off of him. The flimsy material was not calculated to stand rough usage, and a few days sufficed. Even then it was only with the utmost difficulty that he was induced to relinquish them. Only the offer by Mr. Sherwood to completely outfit the boy had any effect, and Injun even hesitated about this, because the outfit didn't conform to his idea of a color scheme. However, once the boy got into the new clothes and looked at himself in the mirror, he felt more satisfied.
Bill Jordan looked him over with undisguised approbation in his face; but he made a suggestion. "Injun," he said, as he looked at the boy's long and shaggy head of hair, "yo' ain't aimin' t' be an understudy fer them Absolem er Sampson persons, be yo'? Ain't yo' bin playin' hookey from the barber's fer quite a spell? Looks like the' might be mice in thet there mane o' yo'r'n. Why don't yo' let Pete here operate on them hirsute hairs an' git yo' all manicur'd up proper? I reckon yo' c'd stand it 'thout takin' gas!"
Injun was of an accommodating nature—the kind that will try anything once; and as the process of civilizing him had gone as far as it had, he concluded he might as well go ahead with it; and in a few moments Pete, the ranch barber, was at work on him. Pete was not what is known as "a tonsorial artist"; he was just a plain barber, whose standing as an amateur was unquestioned. His ways were somewhat primitive, if effective, and his equipment consisted of some sheep-shears, a pair of horse-clippers, and a willing disposition; and with this combination, Pete generally managed to get most of the hair off, in spite of the fact that he had no "Union card." He worked rapidly and was careful—frequently his "customers" escaped without the loss of anything more than their tempers, together with small pieces of hide and an insignificant clipping from an ear, which really amounted to nothing when their otherwise improved appearance was considered.
The "barber-shop" was a space in the ranch-yard, out near the corral, and consisted of a soap-box, on which the victim sat, and the welkin. There was always an "audience," or, rather, spectators, who stood around and made more or less facetious comments; but after witnessing the performance, it took considerable nerve to respond to the call of "Next!"