A Girl of the Plains Country

								

“I quit,” said Hank, “when I got to be a family man, in a manner of
speaking. I had a—there was a small chap at my place then, nigh
about Pettie’s age, and I sort of looked it over, and made the
change on the little feller’s account.”
“Huh!” grunted Old Snake. Shorty made no comment, but Missouri said
with feeling:
“This da—durned cattle country is a mighty lonesome land, with few
pleasures in it, if you ask me, and a man that neither chews nor
cusses misses a sight o’ comfort.”
“Oh, I dunno, Missou’,” the boss demurred mildly, “I’ve tried it
both ways, and I don’t see much difference in the comfort. I get as
much good out of a cup of coffee as I used to get out of a jolt of
red-eye. I’d ruther beller a camp meetin’ hymn, or ‘The Dyin’
Ranger’ than chew tobacker. ‘Con-twist it!’ or ‘Sufferin’ snakes’ or
‘My granny’ is the most horrible oaths I use.” He concluded with
sudden seriousness, “I’m not a-joking; I won’t stand for it, boys;
I’ll fire the first galoot that turns loose and cusses or talks
rough around where the folks is at.”
So the three S cowpunchers rode in off the range of an evening now,
the most harmless associates for the little girl. About headquarters
they spoke—though somewhat haltingly at times—a tamed and
disciplined language, devoid of offense to the tenderest ears.
The Capadines were to come over for noon dinner—which was the only
meal you could take visiting on ranches, it seemed, unless you spent
the night. Missou’ had said things—Uncle Hank went into the kitchen
and shut the door when he said them—but finally he got the dinner,
Uncle Hank keeping an eye on him to see that it was all it should be
for company. Fayte Marchbanks had come, after all. Things went
pretty well while the children were with the grown-ups, for it
appeared that Fayte had nice company manners, when he cared to
display them; Aunt Val thought him a very well-bred boy. But after
dinner, Burchie in the house with Aunt Val and Mrs. Capadine, while
the two fathers smoked on the porch, it began to be trying.
On the journey out, among other and greater losses, a trunk
containing the children’s toys had gone astray and was never
recovered. So Hilda had nothing to offer for Maybelle’s admiration
but one small china-all-over doll, which had been held out for her
to play with on the train. She realized with a good deal of
satisfaction that Fayte Marchbanks couldn’t scalp it; the hair was
painted on its china head; small and rather miserable as it looked
there were advantages.
The two boys presently ranged off with Fayte’s air rifle, playing at
hunting big game; the two girls settled down in the roots of a big
tree and arranged for a little dinner.
“I wish I’d brought my dolls,” Maybelle said discontentedly. “I
would—only I thought you’d have a lot of your own. You said you
had.”