By this time, he of the Foot Hills had his horse saddled and all ready to start. Frenchy was somewhat slower, but soon his mount was also in complete trim for the road. He surveyed his soiled apparel dubiously, then pointing to Slim’s equally reprehensible “duds,” questioned:
“Likee zat! zee gran’ veste-vál?”
“Sho’ thin’! Real cowboys never dress for s’ciety like yo’ city chaps. If yo’ go all dood-toggl’d up, th’ gals won’t dance with yo’. They’d only laugh an’ make sport of yo’. Jus’ cinch that there belt o’ yourn a bit tighter. Too durn’ loose for dancin’. After buyin’ yo’ gal’s basket, yo’ can loosen it up for th’ big feed.”
Poor Frenchy! He had understood but little of the foreman’s instructions relative to dress the evening before, and now drew his worn leather belt considerably tighter, which gave him a most comical appearance. His ancient buckskin breeches, wrinkled and bagged at the knee, were dust-stormed and discolored after the prolonged roundup. His blue flannel shirt, minus buttons, was open at the throat, while a worn silk handkerchief was knotted about his neck. High heeled boots and a slouchy sombrero, tilted jauntily to one side, only added to the wild grotesqueness of his figure.
“There, now!” exclaimed the hero of the Foot Hills, as he surveyed his “pard” of the evening admiringly. “Yo’ll sho’ be th’ ’vent of th’ ’casion. Not many buckskin garbs in this here country an’ th’ gals’ll all fall over theirselfs to git the fust dance wit yo’. Yo’re to be ’gratulated! Yo’ couldn’t a struck no gen’elman more ’sperienced in s’ciety ways than who’s a talkin’. Yo’ bet! It’s scripter to take a stranger in, and yo’ inter’sts is a goin’ be well looked af’er. France’ll be proud when she hears of th’ high ’tainmen of her son in Ameriky’s most ’lete s’ciety. It’s sho’ fortunat’ for th’ world that th’ main Smoke of the Foot Hills is with yo’ to night.”
The two rode away, Frenchy in blissful ignorance that the night previous, in a “pitch” card game, it fell to Slim to see that the “toy” was properly apparelled for the party. Hardly were they in the saddle when the boys at the bunkhouse were all busy with shaving materials, jostling each other for places before the one broken wall-mirror.
They had soon donned their best clothes, flashy silk shirts and handkerchiefs. The inevitable high-riding boot and broad hat were retained as an inseparable adjunct to the cowpuncher’s regalia, under all circumstances.
Amid joking and untrammeled merriment, the gay cavalcade filed from the corral, following the two departed riders. Densmore was with them. For a time he rode in the rear and alone, but Celluloid Bill dropping back, fell in with him, engaging in conversation. The topic drifted, but finally Bill settled down to a descriptive detail of the recent roundup, telling in general the number of hoofs each stockman owned. Carter’s wealth was mostly in horses, but he boasted a goodly number of cattle, while Cogewea could lay claim to more than two thousand bovines on the one range. Thirteen hundred and seventy-five of these had recently been sold as beef at the banner price of the season; with delivery six weeks later. Her band of fifteen hundred horses in the June roundup were considered the best on the Flathead. Seven hundred and fifty of these were then contracted, but were yet to be “cut” from the herd. The money was then in bank, subject to her order as soon as the stock could be delivered.
The Easterner gasped! He had never dreamed that Cogewea possessed property other than the land of which she had spoken. He kept his meditations to himself, but cautiously asked about her acres, if any. Bill was not sure on this point, other than that he knew of one fine allotment and a few range sections in a body. However, Rodeo Jack knew all about this part of her possessions.
“That there breed-gal,” Bill confided, “is sho’ still ’bout her wealth. Don’t say nothin’! ’Pears to think if it gets known she has dough, she’ll get trapped by some fortun’ hunter ’long th’ hitchin’ lines. Denies ownin’ any horses an’ cattle. But I know! ’cause I was in both roun’ups. Rodeo got it ’bout her land from Carter, who wants her to marry Jim. Somebody’ll get a fine layout, who can rope her in. But he’ll hafter go some! Injun blood an’ skittisher nor a wild bronc’.”
The opera hall was all ablaze and the crowd gathering, when Slim and his “pard” reached Polson. But to hold the joke for the other boys, he proposed to Frenchy that they go to the pool room for a few games before repairing to the gathering. It was, he contended, too early for the social to open anyhow. The “toy” readily consented, never dreaming of what was in store for him. They played until Slim thought it time for the riders to be there, when he suddenly said:
“Watcher say, Frenchy! Let’s go to th’ big doin’s now.”
“O’ritz! I ess redée!”
They gained the street and strains of music was wafted from the place of gathering. This hushed as they reached the jammed doorway. Drifting in with the crowd, Slim very adroitly guided his “pard” out onto the vacant floor. The Parisian gazed around, surprised. He was startled to see everybody dressed in their best. He instantly comprehended the meanness of the joke played him, and attempted to leave the hall. But, to the great amusement of the spectators, the boys would not permit him to pass the door. A tenderfoot was being “broken in.”
Baffled, the victim shrank into the shadows away from his tormenters. He was humiliated and ashamed of his absurd
