t here,
child?" sez I.

She didn't answer for a minute. "I rode old Kate," said she at last,
"but I didn't want you to know it. She's over behind that rock. And
now, Happy, don't you dare to forget me. Good-bye."

I set her down in the road with her eyes misty an' her white teeth set
in her lips, an' my own eyes were so hazy like that I couldn't see her
when I looked back, an' then I rode away down the valley trail.

CHAPTER TWO

CONVINCING A COOK

I'm as wild as any comet when I first swing out o' my regular orbit,
an' I rode on an' on, sometimes puttin' up for the night at a ranch
house an' sometimes campin' out in the open, where I'd lay till dawn
gazin' up at the stars an' wonderin' how things were goin', back at the
Diamond Dot. I mooned on until at last I wound up in the Pan Handle
without a red copper, an' my pony sore footed an' lookin' like what a
crow gets when the coyotes invite him out to dinner.

I drew rein one night along side a most allurin' camp fire. I had
noticed the herd when I came along in, an' they was dandies; big solid
five-year-olds, hog fat, but they wasn't contented--kept fidgetin'
around. When I struck the fire, a fair haired young feller was readin'
a book, two Greasers an' a half blood Injun was playin' poker with an
old bunch o' whiskers 'at wasn't a ridin' man at all while the cook had
turned in without washin' the dishes.

"If anybody's at home," sez I, "I'd like to ask permission to set down
an' rest."

"Why, certainly, make yourself at home," sez the fair hair. The balance
o' the bunch only give me the side eye.

"Would you need any more help?" I asked, most respectful.

"No, thank you," sez the young feller, "I think we'll make it all
right."

"You have a nice bunch here," sez I, "an' I thought perhaps you might
want to get 'em to market in good shape. I am referrin' to the cows"--I
continued, kind o' takin' the cover off my voice.

"We expect to get them to market in good shape," sez the fair-hair,
uncoilin' his dignity. I rolled a cigarette.

"What makes you think we won't get them to market in good shape?" sez
he.

"'Cause your cook's got a sour temper, an' the' ain't no one bossin'
the job--'at knows how," sez I, mild an' open-faced, an' lookin' into
the fire. The fair-hair straightens up with a snort, while the
pot-openers begin to cuss sort o' growly.

"Where are you from an' how long have you been making my business your
own?" asked the fair-hair.