"Come have some tea," she cordially boomed as she passed. I returned
uncertainly. Tea? Yes. But--However, the door would be shut and the
Asiatic probably diverted.

As I came again to the rear of the ranch house Mrs. Pettengill, in khaki
riding breeches, flannel shirt, and the hat of her trade, towered
bulkily as an admirable figure of wrath, one hand on her hip, one
poising a quirt viciously aloft. By the corral gate Buck Devine drooped
cravenly above his damaged saddle; at the door of the bunk house Sandy
Sawtelle tottered precariously on one foot, his guitar under his arm, a
look of guilty horror on his set face. By the stable door stood the
incredibly withered Jimmie Time, shrinking a vast dismay.

"You hear me!" exploded the infuriated chatelaine, and I knew she was
repeating the phrase.

"Ain't I got to mend this latigo?" protested Buck Devine piteously.

"You'll go up the gulch and beyond the dry fork and mend it, if you
whistle that tune again!"

Sandy Sawtelle rumpled his pink hair to further disorder and found a few
weak words for his conscious guilt.

"Now, I wasn't aiming to harm anybody, what with with my game laig and
shet up here like I am--"

"Well, my Lord! Can't you play a sensible tune then?"