The cowboy laughed and slapped Sundown on the back. "Come on, Bud!
You eat with me this trip."


Western humor, accentuated by alcohol, is apt to broaden rapidly in
proportion to the quantity of liquor consumed. After a given quantity
has been consumed--varying with the individual--Western humor broadens
without regard to proportion of any kind.

The jovial puncher, having enjoyed Sundown's society to the extent of
six-bits' worth of Mexican provender, suggested a return to "The Last
Chance," where the tramp was solemnly introduced to a newly arrived
coterie of thirsty riders of the mesas. Gaunt and exceedingly tall, he
loomed above the heads of the group in the barroom "like a crane in a
frog-waller," as one cowboy put it. "Which ain't insinooatin' that our
hind legs is good to eat, either," remarked another. "He keeps right
on smilin'," asserted the first speaker. "And takin' his smile," said
the other. "Wonder what's his game? He sure is the lonesomest-lookin'
cuss this side of that dead pine on Bald Butte, that I ever seen." But
conviviality was the order of the evening, and the punchers grouped
together and told and listened to jokes, old and new, talked sagebrush
politics, and threw dice for the privilege of paying rather than
winning. "Says he's scoutin' for a job cookin'," remarked a young
cowboy to the main group of riders. "Heard him tell Johnny."

Meanwhile, Sundown, forgetful of everything save the congeniality of
the moment, was recounting, to an amused audience of three, his
experiences as assistant cook in an Eastern hotel. The rest of the
happy and irresponsible punchers gravitated to the far end of the bar