“Now here’s Bob,” continued the instructor. “I hear his schoolmarm has spent a week preparin’ her basket. Got Boston beans; chicken done brown and built pies and cookees and things made with nuts and spices. Goin’ have them there paper handrags, all flowered and folded to a p’int at one end and a spreadin’ out at t’other end like a struttin’ turkey’s tail. You want to show your ’preciation and make a killin’ hit by payin’ ten dollars for her feed and lettin’ on you feel skunk-mean ’cause you got it so cheap.”
“Aw! come off!” expostulated the Silent one. “I’m willin’ to help make this here ’fair a roarin scream, but I sho’ never can’t foller such dev’ous ’structions. I hater get stampeded in thick woods; I hater be los’ on a blin’ trail.”
“Never mind, Bob!” broke in Celluloid Bill. “Yo’ go ’head an’ nab that there schoolmarm’s feed, an’ as I’m some ’sperienced in s’ciety frun’tions, I’ll jus’ keep lamps on yo’ an’ if yo’ lattigo slips or yo’ get in quicksan’, I’ll rope and yank yo’ to solid groun’. Be no ’casion for failin’ with my ’fishus guidance.”
As if Bob’s fate was settled, Jim resumed his dissertation.
“Slim,” he said, addressing this late recruit, “you want to show your colors. Lots old maids from the flats goin’ be there. Your pockets is full of dough, and if you capture a big feed with the cook thrown in, maybe you can begin startin’ a ranch of your own.”
“Chillin’ breezes of Sayharry!” exclaimed that worthy, who was to remain on the ranch for a time. “Yo’ sho’ talk as though ’ployed to spiel for any f’aternizin’ gatherin’. But yo’ll see a whirlin’ rope in th’ game, nor does ‘Leather Slim o’ th’ Foothills’ ever throw for no tame maverick. Yo’ gotter hus’el for th’ bes’, even to th’ six-gun chor’s echo.”
“That’s sho’ a howlin’!” chimed Rodeo Jack. “All H-B boys don’t vacate th’ corral for no galoots; shoot scrappin’ nor buck dancin’.”
“You’re spoutin’ true, Rodeo,” was the encomium of the prideful foreman. “You and Bill don’t need no urgin’ and Slim ’pears of the same bran’. You fellers never pull leather in no kind of contest and you can scratch the best. But there ain’t to be no gun-barkin. No ’casion! This here outfit is a goin’ to bust all social and law ’bidin’ records of the Flathead. No gun-muzzle tooth rattlin’ where religion is mixed. Savey?”40
“S’pose that there eastern masher’ll captur’ th’ fine feed yo’ gal goin’ put up, won’t he Jim?” gibed Bill. “He’s had the run of th’ range so long that—”
“There’s where you tangle your rawhide, old boss;” and to the surprise of all the foreman laughed good naturedly. “I got that there part of program cinched. Watch an Injun pattered cano-basket, made by the Stemteemä for th’ ’casion, bring the banner price of the evenin’. You just keep this here short secret safe corralled and see the brandin’ iron put to a tenderfoot pretender. No guy who can’t fall off a standin, still cayuse without hurtin’ his‑self is goin’ have any show in a relay with the champeen rider of the Flathead. The race wouldn’t be even amusin’.”
“Frenchy,” Jim addressed the camp “toy,” “you buy a dozen baskets that don’t look too promisin, and donate ’em to the city ginks who ain’t got the dough. ’Twill be a good ’vestment for the church cause.”
“Sacre! I geetz a plan-tee blee-ed zor zalf. Zen ze ozer—”
“Bah!” broke in Celluloid Bill. “Why don’t yo’ say what yo’re talkin’ ’bout? yo’—from-cross-th’-sea, toad-eatin’-son-of-Gaul? Yo’ speak like a Chink with hot mush in th’ crater of his map.”
Frenchy stood up, threw his breast out with pride, as he continued:
“I speik ze zord vare splan-deed. At ze zosi-bla, I geet plan-tee zor ze ten-dorzoot. I maik zone zee big baz-ze-ket—”
Then growing excited, the “toy” began beating the air in the way of emphasis, when the clang of the big tin pan vibrating on the evening breeze, summoned the hungry crew to the supper table. That the bounteous repast was appreciated by the rollicking riders, was amply attested by the inroads on the tempting viands.
The meal over, the boys under cover of darkness, repaired to the river for a splash in the cooling waters. Refreshed, by the dip, Rodeo Jack and Silent Bob sprawled under the pines for a smoke and discussion of the coming social. Rodeo was in high spirits and went over every detail of dress and minor arrangements, with all the glee of a child. But the Silent one was not so sure of his premises. He had never participated in any of “them there mixin’s.”
“Jim’s all thar’ as fo’man an’ boss on th’ roun’up,” he drawled in disgust, “but I ain’t knowin’ ’bout this here church bisence; whar’ th’ range is all differen’. I like to know th’ corral fencin’ ain’t down an’ my cinchin’ is a holdin’ when I saddle on to a strange bronc. I hater get spilled in a crowd; I hater be th’—”
“Aw! what’s a eatin’ yo’?” interrupted Rodeo impatiently. “Yo’re on a dead easy trail, an’ with Bill a champerronin’ yo’, yo’ needn’t take no feller’s dust. None of them there city guys’ll put anythin’ over on Bill when it comes to shinin’ in s’ciety circuses. He’s been clean to Omyhaw with cattle onst, where he ’tended three dances in a big corral they said was a garden. But Bill, he looked all roun’ an’ didn’t fine’ nary a durn ’tater patch nor nothin’ growin’ ’cept some kin’ greas’ wood in a nail-keg, an’ a lit’le bush in a half whiskey bar’l, what they tol’ him was a roder-john or somethin’. But hell! th’ ’tractions! Some fiddlers, a pianer an’ a
