“But look ah-heah, Nels,” yelled Stillwell, “we come out to play gol-lof!  We can’t let you knock the ball around with your gun.  What’d you want to get mad for?  It’s only fun.  Now you an’ Nick hang round heah an’ be sociable.  We ain’t depreciatin’ your company none, nor your usefulness on occasions.  An’ if you just hain’t got inborn politeness sufficient to do the gallant before the ladies, why, remember Stewart’s orders.”

“Stewart’s orders?” queried Nels, coming to a sudden halt.

“That’s what I said,” replied Stillwell, with asperity.  “His orders.  Are you forgettin’ orders?  Wal, you’re a fine cowboy.  You an’ Nick an’ Monty, ’specially, are to obey orders.”

Nels took off his sombrero and scratched his head.  “Bill, I reckon I’m some forgetful.  But I was mad.  I’d ‘a’ remembered pretty soon, an’ mebbe my manners.”

“Sure you would,” replied Stillwell.  “Wal, now, we don’t seem to be proceedin’ much with my gol-lof team.  Next ambitious player step up.”

In Ambrose, who showed some skill in driving, Stillwell found one of his team.  The succeeding players, however, were so poor and so evenly matched that the earnest Stillwell was in despair.  He lost his temper just as speedily as Nels had.  Finally Ed Linton’s wife appeared riding up with Ambrose’s wife, and perhaps this helped, for Ed suddenly disclosed ability that made Stillwell single him out.

“Let me coach you a little,” said Bill.

“Sure, if you like,” replied Ed.  “But I know more about this game than you do.”

“Wal, then, let’s see you hit a ball straight.  Seems to me you got good all-fired quick.  It’s amazin’ strange.” ere Bill looked around to discover the two young wives modestly casting eyes of admiration upon their husbands.  “Haw, haw!  It ain’t so darned strange.  Mebbe that’ll help some.  Now, Ed, stand up and don’t sling your club as if you was ropin’ a steer.  Come round easy-like an’ hit straight.”

Ed made several attempts which, although better than those of his predecessors, were rather discouraging to the exacting coach.  Presently, after a particularly atrocious shot, Stillwell strode in distress here and there, and finally stopped a dozen paces or more in front of the teeing-ground.  Ed, who for a cowboy was somewhat phlegmatic, calmly made ready for another attempt.

“Fore!” he called.

Stillwell stared.

“Fore!” yelled Ed.

“Why’re you hollerin’ that way at me?” demanded Bill.

“I mean for you to lope off the horizon.  Get back from in front.”

“Oh, that was one of them durned crazy words Monty is always hollerin’.  Wal, I reckon I’m safe enough hyar.  You couldn’t hit me in a million years.”

“Bill, ooze away,” urged Ed.

“Didn’t I say you couldn’t hit me?  What am I coachin’ you for?  It’s because you hit crooked, ain’t it?  Wal, go ahaid an’ break your back.”