"Disgusting rowdies!" wheezed the fat woman as, dishevelled and
perspiring, she waddled toward the steps of her coach; while the Mayor,
his Adam's apple fairly pumping importance, led a sturdy band of
thirsters recruited from among the train passengers across the flat
toward a building over the door of which was fixed a pair of horns of
prodigious spread. Lest some pilgrim of erring judgment should mistake
the horns for short ones, or misapprehend the nature of the business
conducted within, the white false front of the building proclaimed in
letters of black a foot high: LONG HORN SALOON. While beneath the
legend was depicted a fat, vermilion clad cowboy mounted upon a
tarantula-bodied, ass-eared horse of pink, in the act of hurling a
cable-like rope which by some prodigy of dexterity was made to describe
three double-bows and a latigo knot before its loop managed to poise in
mid-air above the head of a rabbit-sized baby-blue steer whose horns
exceeded in length the pair of Texas monstrosities that graced the
doorway.

"We're goin' to back onto the sidin' now," announced the conductor,
"where dinner will be served in the dinin' car as ushool."

The cowboys had moved along to view the wreck and were grouped about
the broken end of the trestle where they lolled in their saddles, some
with a leg thrown carelessly about the horn and others lying back over
the cantle, while the horses which a few moments before had dashed
across the common at top speed now stood with lowered heads and
drooping ears, dreaming cayuse dreams.

The engine bell was ringing monotonously and the whistle sounded three
short blasts, while the passengers clambered up the steps of the
coaches or backed away from the track.