"Ain't you gone yet? What d'yuh want?"

"Silver broke his leg."

"Huh. I knew that long ago. Chip's gone to shoot him. You go on to
the house, doggone it! You'll have every cow in the corral on the
fight. That red waist of yours--"

"It isn't red, it's pink--a beautiful rose pink. If your cows don't like
it, they'll have to be educated up to it. Chip isn't either going to
shoot that horse, J. G. I'm going to set his leg and cure him--and I'm
going to keep him in one of your box stalls. There, now!"

Cal Emmett took a sudden fit of coughing and leaned his forehead weakly
against a rail, and Weary got into some unnecessary argument with his
horse and bolted across to the gate, where his shoulders were seen to
shake--possibly with a nervous chill; the bravest riders are sometimes
so affected. Nobody laughed, however. Indeed, Slim seemed unusually
serious, even for him, while Happy Jack looked positively in pain.

"I want that short, fat man to help" (Slim squirmed at this blunt
identification of himself) "and Mr. Weary, also." Miss Whitmore might
have spoken with a greater effect of dignity had she not been clinging
to the top of the fence with two dainty slipper toes thrust between
the rails not so very far below. Under the circumstances, she looked
like a pretty, spoiled little schoolgirl.

"Oh. You've turned horse doctor, have yuh?" J. G. leaned suddenly
upon his branding iron and laughed. "Doggone it, that ain't a bad idea.