Thus nursing his wounded pride, the Parisian sat in his shadowy corner, and saw the shy-girl dancing with some of the rangers. He noted the small feet, how lightly they touched the floor and the glide was that of the woods-nymph. This privilege, he had hoped for, as well as the joy of bidding for her basket. Never, since leaving old France, had he felt so homesick and desolate. A collegian and from an aristocratic family, he had moved in the most exclusive circles of the Old World, but here, in Democratic America, he felt to be a social outcast. Not a woman there but would refuse him a dance.
Near midnight, the floor manager announced the sale of the baskets. The auctioneer mounted a table and began crying bids. Slim approached Frenchy, smiling broadly as if he had never in all his career perpetrated an unsavory joke. The rider was resplendent in the gala clothes which had been smuggled to him by his associates. His manner was one of supreme innocence as he addressed the “toy.”
“Now partner, it’s time yo’ show yo’ ’preciation. Come an’ bid on yo’ gal’s basket.”
“Aw come on!” he urged, as Frenchy silently shook his head. “If yo’ too bashful, I’ll bid for yo’.”
The victim’s face softened. Fondling his roll, he replied in the most confidential undertone:
“Eff mak’ pay fortee dollar! Zee Frenchee genzeemon no pay leetl’ monee. I spiek zee bazakeét!”
“Sho’ thin’!” exulted the Smoke of the Foot Hills, slapping the “toy” familiarly on the shoulder. “Yo’ gota right idee an’ leave it to ol’ Slim to manage for yo’. Yo’ cause is in han’s of yo’ best frien’!”
The plotter then hunted up Rodeo Jack and that confederate nearly doubled at what was whispered in his ear. He immediately took his place on the opposite side of the auctioneer, while Slim went back to the victim in the corner. He nudged Frenchy when an exceedingly pretty basket was offered. There was a negative shake of the head. Presently when a plain, though tasty basket was displayed, Slim received a poke in the ribs with:
“Geet ’im!”
The accommodating rider stepping forward, bid a dollar and was promptly raised by Rodeo. The bidding grew steady and at times fierce. The audience became hushed in expectancy. Slim, who had only recently drifted in from the ranges of Wyoming, was a practical stranger, but it was known that the rivals were both of the H-B outfit.
“Whose basket can it be?”
This question was bandied throughout the hall, as the auctioneer’s stentorian voice called:
“Fifteen dollars!” The banner bid of the evening but now—“Eighteen!—twenty!—twenty two!—twenty four!—twenty five!—twenty six!—twenty eight—twenty nine!—twenty nine!—Do I hear thirty? Wough! Thirty one!—thirty three!—thirty thr—five! Thirty five. Who will make it—There you are! Thirty six! thirty si—seven! Thirty seven! Do I get a raise? Nothing near its worth! Come one! Last call without a bid! Thirty sev—thirty eight! thirty eight! All in at thirty eight? Hit ’er up! A good cause! a Church cause. A heavy feed well cooked with the cookee thrown in! Hit the grit there, you sunbeam from the cactus plains of Texas! Jingle the kale for the object of your—”
But Rodeo, throwing up his hands, turned aside. The crier barked:
“And sold! at thirty-eight dollars to the unidentified gentleman partner of the buckskin negligee. Here, take your property and pay the Deacon afterwards. We trust you because we do not know you.”
At this good natured thrust, the spectators roared and gave the victorious contestant a hearty “three and a tiger.” But too generous to reap renown which rightfully belonged to another, he of the Foot Hills sprang upon a chair and holding aloft the modest looking basket, bellowed:
“La‑dees an’ gen’lmen! I ain’t no speecher, nor I ain’t no s’ciety dood to sail under no false colored buntin’. This here twopeople grub has been bargained for by proxa; an’ th’ ’praised val’er of same is a going be likerdated by the fust an’ only ’ristocat of Paris; where range th’ toad-eatin’ pervi’ers of fashun. As his ’steemed pard, I ropes this occasion to in’duce to yo’ the only Buckskin Frenchy of th’ noted H-B ranch. Ho! there Ol’ hoss in the co’ner! Come on with yo’ dough an’ take yo’ belt fillin’; which I bets don’t ’clude no fried water-chicken. Yo’ is a lucky coyote, an’ yo’ gal ain’t got nothin’ on yo’ in this here soc’al tran’fixion.”
The Smoke of the Foot Hills was again greeted with a storm of applause, ending in a regular stampede for the now suddenly popular Parisian. But the “only ’risto-cat,” taking advantage of the excitement during the rival bidding, had, unobserved, slipped through the door and ran like a hunted deer for the livery where his horse was sheltered. With nervous haste he saddled the buckskin, and leaping to its back, left on a mad gallop for the ranch. The night was pitchy dark and he had been over the unfenced trail-road only twice. Out on the big flat he lost his way, and circled for an hour, when he recalled having heard the rangers say that in such case, if a horse is given the rein, it will always come safely through. This he did and in due time, reached the bunkhouse, bordering on exhaustion. He was enjoying the warmth of his blankets and sound asleep when the other boys arrived an hour later.
In the meantime, when it was discovered
