nd lastly there would be the herd-boss, a cow expert
he, and at the head of the business.

Once the herd is off his hands and his mind at the end of the drive,
the cowboy unbuckles and reposes himself from his labours. He
becomes deeply and famously drunk. Hungering for the excitement of
play he collides amiably with faro and monte and what other deadfalls
are rife of the place. Never does he win; for the games aren't
arranged that way. But he enjoys himself; and his losses do not prey
on him.

Sated with faro bank and monte--they can't be called games of chance,
the only games of chance occurring when cowboys engage with each
other at billiards or pool--sated, I say, with faro and Mexican
monte, and exuberant of rum, which last has regular quick renewal,
our cowboy will stagger to his pony, swing into the saddle, and with
gladsome whoops and an occasional outburst from his six shooter
directed toward the heavens, charge up and down the street. This
last amusement appeals mightily to cowboys too drunk to walk. For,
be it known, a gentleman may ride long after he may not walk.

If a theatre be in action and mayhap a troop of "Red Stocking
Blondes," elevating the drama therein, the cowboy is sure to attend.
Also he will arrive with his lariat wound about his body under his
coat; and his place will be the front row. At some engaging crisis,
such as the "March of the Amazons," having first privily unwound and
organised his lariat to that end, he will arise and "rope" an Amazon.
This will produce bad language from the manager of the show, and
compel the lady to sit upon the stage to the detriment of her
wardrobe if no worse, and all to keep from being pulled across the
footlights. Yet the exercise gives the cowboy deepest pleasure.
Having thus distinguished the lady of his admiration, later he will
meet her and escort her to the local dancehall. There, mingling with
their frank companions, the two will drink, and loosen the boards of
the floor with the strenuous dances of our frontier till daylight
does appear.

For the matter of a week, or perchance two--it depends on how fast
his money melts--in these fashions will our gentleman of cows engage
his hours and expand himself. He will make a deal of noise, drink a
deal of whiskey, acquire a deal of what he terms "action"; but he
harms nobody, and, in a town toughened to his racket and which needs
and gets his money, disturbs nobody.

"Let him whoop it up; he's