ed.

"I thought sure there was another case of it under the counter, boys,"
he explained. "But it happened to be catterdges."

"You've sure got a case of happenedicitis," said Poky Rodgers, fency
rider of the Largo Verde /potrero/. "Somebody ought to happen to give
you a knock on the head with the butt end of a quirt. I've rode in
nine miles for some tobacco; and it don't appear natural and seemly
that you ought to be allowed to live."

"The boys was smokin' cut plug and dried mesquite leaves mixed when I
left," sighed Mustang Taylor, horse wrangler of the Three Elm camp.
"They'll be lookin' for me back by nine. They'll be settin' up, with
their papers ready to roll a whiff of the real thing before bedtime.
And I've got to tell 'em that this pink-eyed, sheep-headed, sulphur-
footed, shirt-waisted son of a calico broncho, Sam Revell, hasn't got
no tobacco on hand."

Gregorio Falcon, Mexican vaquero and best thrower of the rope on the
Cibolo, pushed his heavy, silver-embroidered straw sombrero back upon
his thicket of jet black curls, and scraped the bottoms of his pockets
for a few crumbs of the precious weed.

"Ah, Don Samuel," he said, reproachfully, but with his touch of
Castilian manners, "escuse me. Dthey say dthe jackrabbeet and dthe
sheep have dthe most leetle /sesos/--how you call dthem--brain-es? Ah
don't believe dthat, Don Samuel--escuse me. Ah dthink people w'at
don't keep esmokin' tobacco, dthey--bot you weel escuse me, Don
Samuel."

"Now, what's the use of chewin' the rag, boys," said the untroubled
Sam, stooping over to rub the toes of his shoes with a red-and-yellow
handkerchief. "Ranse took the order for some more smokin' to San
Antone with him Tuesday. Pancho rode Ranse's hoss back yesterday; and
Ranse is goin' to drive the wagon back himself. There wa'n't much of a
load--just some woolsacks and blankets and nails and canned peaches
and a few things we was out of. I look for Ranse to roll in to-day
sure. He's an early starter and a hell-to-split driver, and he ought
to be here not far from sundown."

"What plugs is he drivin'?" asked Mustang Taylor, with a smack of hope
in his tones.

"The buckboard greys," said Sam.

"I'll wait a spell, then," said the wrangler. "Them plugs eat up a
trail like a road-runner swallowin' a whip snake. And you may bust me
open a can of greengage plums, Sam, while I'm waitin' for somethin'
better."

"Open me some yellow clings," ordered Poky Rodgers. "I'll wait