here; though, when he came to think of it there was no reason why he
shouldn't.

Pink was not like any one else. He was slight and girlish to look at. But
you mustn't trust appearances; for Pink was all muscle strung on steel wire,
according to the belief of those who tried to handle him. He had little
white hands, and feet that looked quite comfortable in a number four boot,
and his hair was a tawny gold and curled in distracting, damp rings on his
forehead. His eyes were blue and long-lashed and beautiful, and they looked
at the world with baby innocence--whereas a more sophisticated
little devil never jangled spurs at his heels. He was everything but
insipid, and men liked him--unless he chose to dislike them, when they
thought of him with grating teeth. To find him bullying the Cross L boys
brought a warmth to Rowdy's heart.

Pink made a cigarette, and then offered Rowdy his tobacco-sack, and asked
questions about the Cypress Hills country. How was this girl?--and was that
one married yet?--and did the other still grieve for him? As a matter of
fact, he had yet to see the girl who could quicken his pulse a single beat,
and for that reason it sometimes pleased him to affect susceptibility beyond
that of other men.

It was after dinner when he and Rowdy went humming down to the stables,
gossiping like a couple of old women over a back fence.

"I see you've got Conroy's Chub yet," Pink observed carelessly.

"Oh, for Heaven's sake let up on that cayuse!" Rowdy cried petulantly. "I
wish I'd never got sight of the little buzzard-head; I've had him crammed
down my throat the last day or two till it's getting plumb monotonous. Pink,