Presently we saw the most grotesque figure approaching camp.  It was Herman, the fat cook, on Hunks, a gaunt, ugly old horse, whose days of usefulness under the saddle were past and who had degenerated into a workhorse.  The disgrace of it seemed to be driving him into a decline, but he stumbled along bravely under his heavy load.  A string of a dozen sage chickens swung on one side, and across the saddle in front of Herman lay a young antelope.  A volley of German abuse was hurled at poor Herman, wound up in as plain American as Mrs. Louderer could speak:  “And who iss going to pay de game warden de fine of dot antelope what you haf shot?  And how iss it that we haf come de camp by und so starved as we iss hungry, and no cook und no food?  Iss dat for why you iss paid?”

Herman was some Dutch himself, however.  “How iss it,” he demanded, “dat you haf not so much sense as you haf tongue?  How haf you lived so long as always in de West und don’t know enough to hunt a bean-hole when you reach your own camp.  Hey?”

Mrs. Louderer was very properly subdued and I delighted when he removed the stones from where the fire had been, exposing a pit from which, with a pair of pot-hooks, he lifted pots and ovens of the most delicious meat, beans, and potatoes.  From the mess-box he brought bread and apricot pie.  From a near-by spring he brought us a bright, new pail full of clear, sparkling water, but Mrs. Louderer insisted upon tea and in a short time he had it ready for us.  The tarpaulin was spread on the ground for us to eat from, and soon we were showing an astonished cook just how much food two women and a child could get away with.  I ate a good deal of ashes with my roast beef and we all ate more or less sand, but fastidiousness about food is a good thing to get rid of when you come West to camp.

When the regular supper-time arrived the punchers began to gather in, and the “boss,” who had been to town about some business, came in and brought back the news of the man-hunt.  The punchers sat about the fire, eating hungrily from their tin plates and eagerly listening to the recital.  Two of the boys were tenderfeet:  one from Tennessee called “Daisy Belle,” because he whistled that tune so much and because he had nose-bleed so much,—­couldn’t even ride a broncho but his nose would bleed for hours afterwards; and the other, “N’Yawk,” so called from his native State.  N’Yawk was a great boaster; said he wasn’t afraid of no durned outlaw,—­said his father had waded in bloody gore up to his neck and that he was a chip off the old block,—­rather hoped the chase would come our way so he could try his marksmanship.