upon flavor, he borrowed a huge Mexican spur from his assistant and immersed it in a pan of boiling water.  “And speakin’ of locality color,” he murmured, grinning at the possibilities before him, “how’s that, Johnny?” And he rolled out a thin layer of pie-dough and taking the spur for a “pattern-wheel,” he indented a free-hand sketch of the Concho brand on the immaculate dough.  Next he wheeled out a rather wobbly cayuse, then an equally wobbly and ferocious cow.  Each pie came from the oven with some symbol of the range printed upon it, the general effect being enhanced by the upheaval of the piecrust in the process of baking.  When the punchers rode in that evening and entered the messroom, they sniffed knowingly.  But not until the psychological moment did Sundown parade his pies.  Then he stepped to the kitchen and, with the lordly gesture of a Michael Angelo unveiling a statue for the approval of Latin princes, commanded the assistant to “Bring forth them pies.”  And they were “brung.”

Each astonished puncher was gravely presented with a whole pie—­bubbling kine, dimpled cayuses, and sprawling spurs.  Silence—­as silence is wont to do in dramatic moments—­reigned supreme.  Then it was that the purveyor of spontaneous Western exclamations missed his opportunity, being elsewhere at the time.

“Whoop!  Let ’er buck!” exclaimed Bud Shoop, swinging an imaginary hat and rocking from side to side.

“So-o, Boss!” exclaimed a puncher from the Middle West.

“Hand-made and silver mounted,” remarked another.  “Hate to eat ’em.”

“Trade you my pinto for a steer,” offered still another.

“Nothin” doin’!  That hoss of yours has got colic—­bad.”

“Swap this here goat for that rooster of yours,” said “Sinker,” a youth whose early education in art had been neglected.

“Goat?  You box-head!  That’s a calf.  Kind ‘a’ mired down, but it’s sure a calf.  And this ain’t no rooster.  This here’s a eagle settin’ on his eggs.  You need specs.”

“Noah has sure been herdin’ ’em in,” said another puncher.

Meanwhile, “Noah” stood in the messroom doorway, arms folded and face beaming.  His attitude invited applause, and won it.  Eventually his reputation as a “pie-artist” spread far and wide.  When it leaked out that he had wrought his masterpieces with a spur, there was some murmuring.  Being assured by the assistant that the spur had been previously boiled, the murmuring changed to approval.  “That new cook was sure a original cuss!  Stickin’ right to the range in his picture-work.  Had them there old Hopi picture-writin’s on the rocks beat a mile.”  And the like.

Inspired by a sense of repletion, conducive to generosity and humor, the boys presented Sundown with a pair of large-rowelled Mexican spurs, silver-mounted and altogether formidable.  Like many an historic adventurer, he had won his spurs by a tour-de-force that swept his compatriots off their feet; innuendo if you will—­but the average cowboy is capable of assimilating much pie.