Hard as it is to build up a reputation in a cattle country, which has
its own standards of criticism as everywhere else in the world, it is
not difficult to lose that reputation. From tongue to tongue rolled
the story of Cheerio’s weakness and confession at the branding corral,
and that story grew like a rolling snowball in the telling, so that
presently it would appear that he had confessed not merely to the most
arrant cowardice at the front, but gross treachery to his country and
his king.
Every man at O Bar O was a war veteran. Few of them, it is true, had
seen actual service at the front. Nevertheless, they had acquired the
point of view of the man in the army who is quick to suspect and judge
one he thinks has “funked.” The most jealous and hard in their judgment
were they who were licked in by the long arm of conscription and who
had “served” at the Canadian and English camps.
When Cheerio, clean and refreshed by a dip in the Ghost River, came in
late to the cook-car and cast a friendly glance about him, not even
Hootmon or Pink-Eyed Jake looked up from their “feeding.” An ominous
silence greeted him, and the tongues that were buzzing so loudly prior
to his entrance were stuck into cheeks, while meaning glances and winks
went along the benches, as his grey eyes swept the circle of faces.
“Cheerio! Fellows!” said Cheerio gently, and fell to upon his dinner.
Chum Lee slapped down the soup none too gently into his bowl and as he
did so, the Chinaman said:
“Sloup velly good for men got cold fleet! Eat him quick!”
Bully Bill, his ear inclined to the moving mouth of Holy Smoke, arose
solemnly in his place at the head of the long table, slouched down the
line of men, came to where Cheerio was beginning on that hot soup that
was good for “cold fleet,” and:
“Hi you!” he growled, “pack down your grub P. D. Q. Then git to hello
to the bunkhouse. Git your traps together. Report at the house for
your pay. You’re fired!”