on an oil cloth scarred
with the marks left by many hot dishes. They brought to dinner the
appetites of outdoors men who had whipped for hours a turbid stream
under an August sun. Their talk was strong and crisp, after the fashion
of the mining West. It could not be printed without editing, yet in that
atmosphere it was without offense. There is a time for all things, even
for the elemental talk of frontiersmen on a holiday.

Dinner finished, the fishermen lolled on the grass and smoked.

A man cantered out of the patch of woods above and drew up at the cabin,
disposing himself for leisurely gossip.

"Evening, gentlemen. Heard the latest?" He drew a match across his chaps
and lit the cigarette he had rolled.

"We'll know after you've told us what it is," Colter suggested.

"The Gunnison country ce'tainly is being honored, boys. A party of
effete Britishers are staying at the Lodge. Got in last night. I seen
them when they got off the train--me lud and me lady, three young ladies
that grade up A1, a Johnnie boy with an eyeglass, and another lad who
looks like one man from the ground up. Also, and moreover, there's a
cook, a hawss wrangler, a hired girl to button the ladies up the back,
and a valley chap to say 'Yes, sir, coming, sir,' to the dude."

"You got it all down like a book, Steve," grinned Curly.

"Any names?" asked Colter.

"Names to burn," returned the native. "A whole herd of names, honest to
God. Most any of 'em has five or six, the way the Denver _Post_ tells
it. Me, I can't keep mind of so many fancy brands. I'll give you the A B
C of it. The old parties are Lord James and Lady Jim Farquhar, leastways
I heard one of the young ladies call her Lady Jim. The dude has Verinder
burnt on about eight trunks, s'elp me. Then there's a Miss Dwight and a
Miss Joyce Seldon--and, oh, yes! a Captain Kilmeny, and an Honorable
Miss Kilmeny, by ginger."

Colter flashed a quick look at Crumbs. A change had come over that young
man's face. His blue eyes had grown hard and frosty.

"It's a plumb waste of money to take a newspaper when you're around,
Steve," drawled Colter, in amiable derision. "Happen to notice the color
of the ladies' eyes?"

The garrulous cowpuncher was on the spot once more. "Sure, I did,
leastways one of them. I want to tell you lads that Miss Joyce Seldon is
the prettiest skirt that ever hit this neck of the woods--and her eyes,
say, they're like pansies, soft and deep and kinder velvety."