and, reaching up on the table for his glass, poured the contents down
Lefty's back and arose.

"Yu son-of-a-gun!" indignantly wailed that unfortunate. "Gee, it
feels funny," he added, grinning as he pulled the wet shirt away from
his spine.

"Well, I've got to be amblin'," said Frenchy, totally ignoring the
loss of his hat. "Goin' down to Buckskin," he offered, and then asked,
"When's yore cook comin'?"

"Day after to-morrow, if he don't get loaded," replied Tex.

"Who is he?"

"A one-eyed Mexican-Quiensabe Antonio."

"I used to know him. He's a heck of a cook. Dished up th' grub one
season when I was punchin' for th' Tin-Cup up in Montana," replied
Frenchy.

"Oh, he kin cook now, all right." replied Waffles.

"That's about all he can cook. Useter wash his knives in th' coffee
pot an' blow on di' tins. I chased him a mile one night for leavin'
sand in th' skillet. Yu can have him-I don't envy yu none whatever.

"He don't sand no skillet when little Tenspot's around," assured
that person, slapping his holster. "Does he, Lefty?"