When we had caught our horses for the afternoon, and Flood had saddled and was ready to start, he said to us, “You fellows just mosey along up the trail.  I’ll not be gone long, but when I get back I shall expect to find everything running smooth.  An outfit that can’t run itself without a boss ought to stay at home and do the milking.  So long, fellows!”

The country was well watered, and when rounded the cattle into the bed ground that night, they were actually suffering from stomachs gorged with grass and water.  They went down and to sleep like tired children; one man could have held them that night.  We all felt good, and McCann got up an extra spread for supper.  We even had dried apples for dessert.  McCann had talked the storekeeper at Doan’s, where we got our last supplies, out of some extras as a pelon.  Among them was a can of jam.  He sprung this on us as a surprise.  Bob Blades toyed with the empty can in mingled admiration and disgust over a picture on the paper label.  It was a supper scene, every figure wearing full dress.  “Now, that’s General Grant,” said he, pointing with his finger, “and this is Tom Ochiltree.  I can’t quite make out this other duck, but I reckon he’s some big auger—­a senator or governor, maybe.  Them old girls have got their gall with them.  That style of dress is what you call lo and behold.  The whole passel ought to be ashamed.  And they seem to be enjoying themselves, too.”

Though it was a lovely summer night, we had a fire, and supper over, the conversation ranged wide and free.  As the wagon on the trail is home, naturally the fire is the hearthstone, so we gathered and lounged around it.

“The only way to enjoy such a fine night as this,” remarked Ash, “is to sit up smoking until you fall asleep with your boots on.  Between too much sleep and just enough, there’s a happy medium which suits me.”

“Officer,” inquired Wyatt Roundtree, trailing into the conversation very innocently, “why is it that people who live up among those Yankees always say ‘be’ the remainder of their lives?”

“What’s the matter with the word?” countered Officer.

“Oh, nothing, I reckon, only it sounds a little odd, and there’s a tale to it.”

“A story, you mean,” said Officer, reprovingly.

“Well, I’ll tell it to you,” said Roundtree, “and then you can call it to suit yourself.  It was out in New Mexico where this happened.  There was a fellow drifted into the ranch where I was working, dead broke.  To make matters worse, he could do nothing; he wouldn’t fit anywhere.  Still, he was a nice fellow and we all liked him.  Must have had a good education, for he had good letters from people up North.  He had worked in stores and had once clerked in a bank, at least the letters said so.  Well, we put up a job to get him a place in a little town out on the railroad.  You all know how clannish Kentuckians are.  Let two meet who never saw each other before, and inside of half an hour they’ll be chewing tobacco from the same plug and trying to loan each other money.”