manufacture pies. He knew that the great American appetite is keen for
pies. Finding plenty of material,--dried apples, dried prunes, and
apricots,--he set to work, having in mind former experiences on the
various "east-sides" of various cities. Determined that his reputation
should rest not alone upon flavor, he borrowed a huge Mexican spur from
his assistant and immersed it in a pan of boiling water. "And speakin'
of locality color," he murmured, grinning at the possibilities before
him, "how's that, Johnny?" And he rolled out a thin layer of pie-dough
and taking the spur for a "pattern-wheel," he indented a free-hand
sketch of the Concho brand on the immaculate dough. Next he wheeled
out a rather wobbly cayuse, then an equally wobbly and ferocious cow.
Each pie came from the oven with some symbol of the range printed upon
it, the general effect being enhanced by the upheaval of the piecrust
in the process of baking. When the punchers rode in that evening and
entered the messroom, they sniffed knowingly. But not until the
psychological moment did Sundown parade his pies. Then he stepped to
the kitchen and, with the lordly gesture of a Michael Angelo unveiling
a statue for the approval of Latin princes, commanded the assistant to
"Bring forth them pies." And they were "brung."

Each astonished puncher was gravely presented with a whole
pie--bubbling kine, dimpled cayuses, and sprawling spurs. Silence--as
silence is wont to do in dramatic moments--reigned supreme. Then it
was that the purveyor of spontaneous Western exclamations missed his
opportunity, being elsewhere at the time.

"Whoop! Let 'er buck!" exclaimed Bud Shoop, swinging an imaginary hat
and rocking from side to side.

"So-o, Boss!" exclaimed a puncher from the Middle West.