and, strange to say, he was loved by the very men who
feared him. For he was genial, and he could build a yarn that had the
architectural completeness of a turreted castle, created out of smoke
by some imaginative minstrel of hell. His language on all occasions
was so fresh and startling that men had a way of following him about
just to gather up the poppies and the nightshade of his exuberant
conversation.

As Will Dow later remarked about him, he was "an awfully good man to
have on your side if there was any sassing to be done."

Roosevelt was not one of those who fed on the malodorous stories which
had gained for their author the further sobriquet of "Foul-mouthed
Bill"; but he rather liked Bill Jones.[6] It happened one day, in the
_Cowboy_ office that June, that the genial reprobate was holding forth
in his best vein to an admiring group of cowpunchers.

[Footnote 6: "As I recall Bill, his stories were never
half as bad as Frank [Vine's], for instance. Where he
shone particularly was in excoriating those whom he did
not like. In this connection he could--and did--use the
worst expressions I have ever heard. He was a born
cynic, who said his say in 'plain talk,' not
'langwidge.' For all that, he was filled to the neck
with humor, and was a past-master in the art of
repartee, always in plain talk, remember. Explain it if
you can. Bill was roundly hated by many because he had a
way of talking straight truth. He had an uncanny knack
of seeing behind the human scenery of the Bad Lands, and
always told right out what he saw. That is why they were
all afraid of him."--_Lincoln Lang._]

Roosevelt, who was inclined to be reserved in the company of his new
associates, endured the flow of indescribable English as long as he
could. Then, suddenly, in a pause, when the approving laughter had
subsided, he began slowly to "skin his teeth."

"Bill Jones," he said, looking straight into the saturnine face, and
speaking in a low, quiet voice, "I can't tell why in the world I like
you, for you're the nastiest-talking man I ever heard."

Bill Jones's hand fell on his "six-shooter." The cowpunchers, knowing
their man, expected shooting. But Bill Jones did not shoot. For an
instant the silence in the room was absolute. Gradually a sheepi