ung."

Each astonished puncher was gravely presented with a whole
pie--bubbling kine, dimpled cayuses, and sprawling spurs. Silence--as
silence is wont to do in dramatic moments--reigned supreme. Then it
was that the purveyor of spontaneous Western exclamations missed his
opportunity, being elsewhere at the time.

"Whoop! Let 'er buck!" exclaimed Bud Shoop, swinging an imaginary hat
and rocking from side to side.

"So-o, Boss!" exclaimed a puncher from the Middle West.

"Hand-made and silver mounted," remarked another. "Hate to eat 'em."

"Trade you my pinto for a steer," offered still another.

"Nothin" doin'! That hoss of yours has got colic--bad."

"Swap this here goat for that rooster of yours," said "Sinker," a youth
whose early education in art had been neglected.

"Goat? You box-head! That's a calf. Kind 'a' mired down, but it's
sure a calf. And this ain't no rooster. This here's a eagle settin'
on his eggs. You need specs."

"Noah has sure been herdin' 'em in," said another puncher.

Meanwhile, "Noah" stood in the messroom doorway, arms folded and face
beaming. His attitude invited applause, and won it. Eventually his
reputation as a "pie-artist" spread far and wide. When it leaked out
that he had wrought his masterpieces with a spur, there was some
murmuring. Being assured by the assistant that the spur had been
previously boiled, the murmuring changed to approval. "That new cook
was sure a original cuss! Stickin' right to the range in his
picture-work. Had them there old Hopi picture-writin's on the rocks
beat a mile." And the like.

Inspired by a sense of repletion, conducive to generosity and humor,
the boys presented Sundown with a pair of large-rowelled Mexican spurs,
silver-mounted and altogether formidable. Like many an historic
adventurer, he had won his spurs by a _tour-de-force_ that swept his
compatriots off their feet; innuendo if you will--but the average
cowboy is capable of assimilating much pie.

Although Sundown was offered the use of a bunk in the men's quarters,
he chose to sleep in a box-stall in the stable, explaining that he was
accustomed to sleep in all kinds of places, and that the unused
box-stall with fresh clean straw and blankets would make a very
comfortable bedroom. His reason for declining a place with the men
became apparent about midnight.

Bud Shoop had, in a bluff, offhand way, given him a flannel shirt,
overalls, an old flop-brimmed Stets