dinner hour, she
caught sight of Blister Haines sprawled on two chairs. He was talking
with Bob Dillon.

"Hear you done quit the Slash Lazy D outfit. What's the idee?" he said.

"Nothin' in ridin'," Bob told him. "A fellow had ought to get a piece of
land on the river an' run some cattle of his own. Me an' Dud aim to do
that."

"Hmp! An' meanwhile?"

"We're rip-rappin' the river for old man Wilson."[4]

Blister was pleased, but he did not say so. "Takes a good man to start on
a s-shoestring an' make it go with cattle."

"That's why we're going into it," Bob modestly explained.

Mollie broke in. "What are you boys loafin' here for when I need help in
the dining-room? Can either of you sling hash?"

The fat man derricked himself out of the chairs. "We can. L-lead us to
the job, ma'am."

So it happened that Blister, in a white apron, presently stood before the
Governor ready to take orders. The table was strewn with used dishes and
food, debris left there by previous diners. The amateur waiter was not
sure whether the Governor and his staff had eaten or were ready to eat.

"D-do you want a r-reloadin' outfit?" he asked.

The general, seated beside the Governor, had lived his life in the East.
He stared at Blister in surprise, for at a council held only an hour
before this ample waiter had been the chief spokesman in behalf of fair
play to the Indians. He decided that the dignified thing to do was to
fail to recognize the man.

Blister leaned toward the Governor and whispered confidentially. "Say,
Gov, take my tip an' try one o' these here steaks. They ain't from dogy
stock."

The Governor had been a cattleman himself. The free-and-easy ways of the
West did not disturb him. "Go you once, Blister," he assented.

The waiter turned beaming on the officer. His fat hand rested on the
braided shoulder. "How about you, Gen? Does that go d-double?"

Upon Blister was turned the cold, hard eye of West Point. "I'll take a
tenderloin steak, sir, done medium."

"You'll sure find it'll s-stick to yore ribs," Blister said cheerfully.

Carrying a tray full of dishes, Bob went into the kitchen choking down
his mirth.

"Blister's liable to be shot at daybreak. He's lessie-majesting the U.S.
Army."

Chung Lung shuffled to the door and peered through. Internal mirth
struggled with his habitual gravity. "Gleat smoke, Blister spill cup
cloffee on general."

This fortunately turned out to be an exaggeration. Blister, in