“I hope to die if I’m not in daid earnest,” declared the cattleman. “It’s an amazin’ strange fact. Ask Flo. She’ll tell you. She knows cowboys, an’ how if they ever start on somethin’ they ride it as they ride a hoss.”
Florence being appealed to, and evidently feeling all eyes upon her, modestly replied that Stillwell had scarcely misstated the situation.
“Cowboys play like they work or fight,” she added. “They give their whole souls to it. They are great big simple boys.”
“Indeed they are,” said Madeline. “Oh, I’m glad if they like the game of golf. They have so little play.”
“Wal, somethin’s got to be did if we’re to go on raisin’ cattle at Her Majesty’s Rancho,” replied Stillwell. He appeared both deliberate and resigned.
Madeline remembered that despite Stillwell’s simplicity he was as deep as any of his cowboys, and there was absolutely no gaging him where possibilities of fun were concerned. Madeline fancied that his exaggerated talk about the cowboys’ sudden craze for golf was in line with certain other remarkable tales that had lately emanated from him. Some very strange things had occurred of late, and it was impossible to tell whether or not they were accidents, mere coincidents, or deep-laid, skilfully worked-out designs of the fun-loving cowboys. Certainly there had been great fun, and at the expense of her guests, particularly Castleton. So Madeline was at a loss to know what to think about Stillwell’s latest elaboration. From mere force of habit she sympathized with him and found difficulty in doubting his apparent sincerity.
“To go back a ways,” went on Stillwell, as Madeline looked up expectantly, “you recollect what pride the boys took in fixin’ up that gol-lof course out on the mesa? Wal, they worked on that job, an’ though I never seen any other course, I’ll gamble yours can’t be beat. The boys was sure curious about that game. You recollect also how they all wanted to see you an’ your brother play, an’ be caddies for you? Wal, whenever you’d quit they’d go to work tryin’ to play the game. Monty Price, he was the leadin’ spirit. Old as I am, Miss Majesty, an’ used as I am to cowboy excentrikities, I nearly dropped daid when I heered that little hobble-footed, burned-up Montana cow-puncher say there wasn’t any game too swell for him, an’ gol-lof was just his speed. Serious as a preacher, mind you, he was. An’ he was always practisin’. When Stewart gave him charge of the course an’ the club-house an’ all them funny sticks, why, Monty was tickled to death. You see, Monty is sensitive that he ain’t much good any more for cowboy work. He was glad to have a job that he didn’t feel he was hangin’ to by kindness. Wal, he practised the game, an’ he read the books in the club-house, an’ he got the boys to doin’ the same. That wasn’t very hard, I reckon. They played early an’ late an’ in the moonlight. For a while Monty was coach, an’ the boys stood it. But pretty soon Frankie Slade got puffed on his game, an’ he had to have it out with Monty. Wal, Monty beat him bad. Then one after another the other boys tackled Monty. He beat them all. After that they split up an’ begin to play matches, two on a side. For a spell this worked fine. But cowboys can’t never be satisfied long onless they win all the time. Monty an’ Link Stevens, both cripples, you might say, joined forces an’ elected to beat all comers. Wal, they did, an’ that’s the trouble. Long an’ patient the other cowboys tried to beat them two game legs, an’ hevn’t done it. Mebbe if Monty an’ Link was perfectly sound in their legs like the other cowboys there wouldn’t hev been such a holler. But no sound cowboys’ll ever stand for a disgrace like that. Why, down at the bunks in the evenin’s it’s some mortifyin’ the way Monty an’ Link crow over the rest of the outfit. They’ve taken on superior airs. You couldn’t reach up to Monty with a trimmed spruce pole. An’ Link—wal, he’s just amazin’ scornful.
“‘It’s a swell game, ain’t it?’ says Link, powerful sarcastic. ‘Wal, what’s hurtin’ you low-down common cowmen? You keep harpin’ on Monty’s game leg an’ on my game leg. If we hed good legs we’d beat you all the wuss. It’s brains that wins in gol-lof. Brains an’ airstoocratik blood, which of the same you fellers sure hev little.’
“An’ then Monty he blows smoke powerful careless an’ superior, an’ he says:
“‘Sure it’s a swell game. You cow-headed gents think beef an’ brawn ought to hev the call over skill an’ gray matter. You’ll all hev to back up an’ get down. Go out an’ learn the game. You don’t know a baffy from a Chinee sandwich. All you can do is waggle with a club an’ fozzle the ball.’