move on, too. Them that stayed was brothers, and all
our possessions usually belonged to the guy who kep' the woodenest face
at poker.

The world in them days was peopled with only two species, puncher an'
tenderfoot, the last bein' made by mistake. Moreover, we cow-boys
belonged to two sects, our outfit, and others of no account. And in our
outfit, this Jesse person which is me, laid claims on being best man,
having a pair of gold mounted spurs won at cyards from Pieface, our old
foreman. I'd a rolled cantle, double-rig Cheyenne of carved leather, and
silver horn--a dandy saddle that, first prize for "rope and tie down"
agin all comers.

Gun, belt, quirt, bridle, hat, gloves, everything, my whole kit was
silver mounted and everything in it a trophy of trading, poker, or
fighting. Besides my string of ponies I'd Tiger, an entire black colt
I'd broke--though I own he was far from convinced. Add a good pay-day in
my off hind pocket, and d'ye think I'd own up to them twelve apostles
for uncles? D'ye know what glory is? Wall, I suppose it mostly consists
of being young.

In these days now, I've no youth left to boast of, but it's sweet to
look back, to remember Sailor Jesse at nineteen, six foot one and
filling out, full of original sin, and nothin' copied, feelin' small,
too, for so much cubic contents of health, of growin' power, and
bubbling fun. Solemn as a prairie injun, too, knowing I was all comic
inside, and mighty shy of being found out for the three-year kid I was.

Lookin' back it seems to me that all them vanities was only part of
living natural, being natural. I seen cock birds playing up much the
same to the hen birds--which made believe most solemn they wasn't
pleased.

Time I speak of, our outfit had turned over three thousand head of
long-horns to the Circle S and rode right into Abilene. Thar we was to
take the train for our home ranch down south, and I hoped to get back to
my dog pup Rockyfeller. In my bunk at the ram pasture, too, there was a
china dog, split from nose to tip, but repaired. Yes, I keened for home.
And yet I'd never before been on a railroad, and dreaded the boys would
find out how scared I was of trains.

A sailorman feels queer, steppin' ashore on to streets which seem to
heave although you know they don't--yes, that's what a puncher feels,
too, alighting in a town. Gives you a sort of bow-legged waddle, and
spurs on a sidewalk trail a lot too loud. I lit in Abilene with a blush