Easy Come, Easy Go

To the beef round-up camp, now in the last stages of the hectic trail, there arrived, seeking the 77 outfit as by tryst, a party of four in a buckboard—driving in at noon, across the brown parched plains, timely to the cook’s shrill yelp, “Come an’ get it!”

They were, to wit: a stout ruddy man, a younger man, and two dazzling girls of garb femininely adapted to the Wild West. The equipage pulled down; lengthy Tex, the 77 foreman, rose from his seat upon his hams, to meet it.

The four piled out, the girls gazing open-eyed.

That which they saw was a conclave of ten hungry, hardy, red-faced punchers, reeking of the sun and saddle, squatted in various postures around the cook’s Dutch ovens and earnestly stowing away the midday chuck of coffee, beef, beans, stewed canned tomatoes, hot bread and sorghum.

That which the diners saw was two damsels fabulously appareled and glowing with innocent curiosity, the young sprig in dude rig of riding-breeches and natty flannel shirt and polished puttees, the elder man caparisoned to similar “sporting” effect and manifesting an important strut, aggravated, perhaps, by the bondage of the flesh.

It was one world imposed upon another.

Here, then, was the 77 owner, from the East, evidently to see how his—his cows and men were stacking up! Had brought his friends or family (“tourists,” in any guise) to the show; and first they were watching the “animals” eat.

“Oh, how romantic!” breathed one of the damsels, lips parted.

“Oh, hell!” murmured man to man.