Alec Lloyd, Cowpuncher

"I reckon Simpson'll be late," I says. "Bill Rawson seen him goin' towards Goldstone just now in his thrashin'-machine with a feemale settin' byside him. Bill says she was wearin' one of them fancy collar-box hats, with a duck-wing hitched on to it, and her hair was all mussy over her eyes--like a cow with a board on its horns--and she had enough powder on her face t' make a biscuit."

The ole man begun t' chaw and spit like a bob-cat. "I ain't astin' Bill's advice," he says. "When I want it, I'll let him know. If Simpson's busy over t' Goldstone, we got to wait on him, that's all. But Trowbridge? Not no-ways!"

I seen then that it was time somebody mixed in. I got onto my pinto bronc and loped fer town. But all the way I couldn't think what t' do. So I left Maud standin' outside of Dutchy's, and went over and sit down next Hairoil on the truck. And that's where I was--a-hummin' to myself and a-workin' my haid--when he give me that