It was unfortunate that he went directly from his father's presence out
to the corrals. Some of the cowboys who had ridden all the day before
and stood guard all night had just come in. They were begrimed with
dust, weary, and sleepy-eyed.

"This hyar outfit won't see my tracks no more," said one, disgustedly.
"I never kicked on doin' two men's work. But when it comes to rustlin'
day and night, all the time, I'm a-goin' to pass."

"Turn in, boys, and sleep till we get back with the chuck-wagon," said
Wilson Moore. "We'll clean up that bunch to-day."

"Ain't you tired, Wils?" queried Bludsoe, a squat, bow-legged cowpuncher
who appeared to be crippled or very lame.

"Me? Naw!" grunted Moore, derisively. "Blud, you sure ask fool
questions.... Why, you--mahogany-colored, stump-legged, biped of a
cowpuncher, I've had three hours' sleep in four nights!"

"What's a biped?" asked Bludsoe, dubiously.

Nobody enlightened him.

"Wils, you-all air the only eddicated cowman I ever loved, but I'm a
son-of-a-gun if we ain't agoin' to come to blows some day,"
declared Bludsoe.

"He shore can sling English," drawled Lem Billings. "I reckon he
swallowed a dictionary onct."