feuds and occasional "gun plays" are not to be disposed of in a
preface. One cannot in such cramped space so much as hit the high
places in a cowboy career.

At work on the range and about his camp--for, bar accidents, wherever
you find a cowboy you will find a camp--the cowboy is a youth of
sober quiet dignity. There is a deal of deep politeness and nothing
of epithet, insult or horseplay where everybody wears a gun.

There are no folk inquisitive on the ranges. No one asks your name.
If driven by stress of conversation to something akin to it the
cowboy will say: "What may I call you, sir?" And he's as careful to
add the "sir," as he is to expect it in return.

You are at liberty to select what name you prefer. Where you hail
from? where going? why? are queries never put. To look at the brand
on your pony--you, a stranger--is a dangerous vulgarity to which no
gentleman of the Panhandle or any other region of pure southwestern
politeness would stoop. And if you wish to arouse an instant
combination of hate, suspicion and contempt in the bosom of a cowboy
you have but to stretch forth your artless Eastern hand and ask: "Let
me look at your gun."

Cowboys on the range or in the town are excessively clannish. They
never desert each other, but stay and fight and die and storm a jail
and shoot a sheriff if needs press, to rescue a comrade made captive
in their company. Also they care for each other when sick or
injured, and set one another's bones when broken in the falls and
tumbles of their craft. On the range the cowboy is quiet, just and
peaceable. There are neither women nor cards nor rum about the cow