One evening at twilight, as Madeline was leaving her tent, she encountered Monty. Evidently, he had way-laid her. With the most mysterious of signs and whispers he led her a little aside.
“Miss Hammond, I’m makin’ bold to ask a favor of you,” he said.
Madeline smiled her willingness.
“To-night, when they’ve all shot off their chins an’ it’s quiet-like, I want you to ask me, jest this way, ‘Monty, seein’ as you’ve hed more adventures than all them cow-punchers put together, tell us about the most turrible time you ever hed.’ Will you ask me, Miss Hammond, jest kinda sincere like?”
“Certainly I will, Monty,” she replied.
His dark, seared face had no more warmth than a piece of cold, volcanic rock, which it resembled. Madeline appreciated how monstrous Dorothy found this burned and distorted visage, how deformed the little man looked to a woman of refined sensibilities. It was difficult for Madeline to look into his face. But she saw behind the blackened mask. And now she saw in Monty’s deep eyes a spirit of pure fun.
So, true to her word, Madeline remembered at an opportune moment, when conversation had hushed and only the long, dismal wail of coyotes broke the silence, to turn toward the little cowboy.
“Monty,” she said, and paused for effect—“Monty, seeing that you have had more adventures than all the cowboys together, tell us about the most terrible time you ever had.”
Monty appeared startled at the question that fastened all eyes upon him. He waved a deprecatory hand.
“Aw, Miss Hammond, thankin’ you all modest-like fer the compliment, I’ll hev to refuse,” replied Monty, laboring in distress. “It’s too harrowin’ fer tender-hearted gurls to listen to.”