AT THE ROUND SEVEN
In answer to the call, the door at the rear of the low log house was
thrown open and half a dozen cow punchers, some in chaps and others
with their overalls shoved into the tops of high-heeled boots,
swarmed out. All were bare headed and coatless, and Connie was
conscious of the swift, appraising glance of each pair of eyes as
they swarmed about the horses. Before the boy could alight the team
was unhitched and on its way to the barn in care of two of the boys,
while the rest waited in awkward expectancy.
"Boys, this here is the new boss," introduced Harmon, "name's Morgan,
an' you ain't to lift it by the handle. Looks like a kid, an' new to
the cow country, but I mistrust he ain't no pilgrim, at that."
Connie smiled broadly as he jumped to the ground, and the boys
grinned sheepishly.
Harmon went on with the introductions. "That hombre closest to you
is Tex Rutledge, him havin' be'n run off his native heath, as the
feller says, he hits for Montana. The next one to him is Kid Owens,
another one which the State of Texas got to little fer to hold him.
The old one is Alex McLaurie, that kin tell a cow from a horse seven
days in the week incloodin' Sundays. Mac, he's an old timer, havin'
be'n found down on the Yallerstone herdin' horses way back in
eighteen-forty when Lewis an' Clarke discovered the country. An' the
last one is Milk River Bill. Bill an' Tex is the top broncho
twisters of the outfit. They was both rocked in the saddle of a
rough string when they was babies, an' they ain't neither one of 'em
ever reached down fer a handful of leather sence."
The four advanced, still grinning, and four hands were diffidently
thrust out. Connie grasped each hand in turn.
"Glad to know yuh," said Tex.
"Glad to know yuh," muttered Kid Owens.
"Glad to know yuh," repeated McLaurie.
"Glad to know yuh," echoed Milk River Bill.
Connie smiled: "We'll know each other a lot better before long, I
hope," he said.
"Go on in an finish yer dinner, an' tell the cook we're here,"
advised Harmon, and turned to Connie: "While he's settin' on ourn
I'll show you the house. Not that they's such a lot of it, but you
might's well see what they is."
The two men who had taken the horses were returning from the barn and
Harmon paused: "Might's well make a job of it an' git acquainted all
to onct." He waited till the two came up:
"This here's the new owner," he explained, "name's Morgan, without no
Mister onto it." The two paused and Harmon pointed to a lanky man
with a long, sallow face: "I'll make you acquainted with Tombstone,
so called on account he's plumb doleful minded an' full of forbodin'.
Other name's Traxel, but it ain't of no importance.
"Glad to know yuh," uttered Tombstone, eyeing the boy sombrely.
"The other one," continued Harmon, "is Canary Struthers, so referred
to on account it's his habit to bust out into yodlin' without no more
excuse than what a bronc needs to pitch."
"Glad to know yuh," quoth Canary, and when the handshaking was over,
the two disappeared through the door.
Harmon led the way to the front of the house and up the two steps to
a small porch from which a snow drift, that had evidently lain deep
all winter, had recently been shovelled. The door opened directly
into a large, square room whose walls were adorned with calendars of
other years brightly lithographed and blazonly flaunting the names of
mercantile companies, banks, and Chicago commission houses. The
calendars, three or four chairs, the stove, and a single table
constituted the entire furnishing of the room.
Opening a door, the foreman disclosed a smaller room in which was a
bed and a dresser. "Wilson's slep' in there, an' et in here," he
explained. "The next room to this is where the kids slep', an'
they's a couple of rooms beyond that's handy fer to put up stoppers.
They's a lot of junk in the kids' room that Wilson left here,
saddles, bridles, chaps, an' the like. I expect you can pick you out
an outfit amongst it, except boots--hisn wouldn't never fit you."
"Yes, Kobuk told me about the boots. I got a pair in Seattle."
Another door opened and a man entered, his arms bare to the elbows.
A white flour sack depending from a string tied about his middle
served for an apron, and in his hands he carried a plate, a cup and
saucer, a knife, a fork, and a spoon. Pulling the table out from the
wall, he proceeded to set the dishes upon it, and was about to
disappear through the door, when Harmon called to him: "Hey, Walt,
this here's the new boss. Morgan's his name, an' he's signified that
it's bad medicine to say Mister." He turned to Connie:
"That's Walt Jones, the cook. He's cooked on cow outfits from Mexico
to the line, an' when it comes to dishin' up a good feed of vittles,
he's got 'em all skinned."
"Glad to know yuh," opined the cook, impersonally, and wiping his
hand upon his apron, took the boy's extended hand in a firm grip.
"What's the idea of the lone place at the table?" asked Connie.
"That's yourn. Wilsons et in here."
"Where do the rest of you eat?"
"The men's grub house is back, jest off the kitchen."
"Are you full up out there? Isn't there room for one more?"
The cook grinned: "Room for twenty-two to set down to onct," he
replied, "an' they wasn't only eight of us till you come."
"Well just fix me up a place out there, then," said the boy, "and
we'll all eat together."
Jones nodded, and picking up the dishes, stepped through the door,
closing it behind him.
"Boss goin' to fodder along of the rest of us," he announced, to the
boys who had resumed their interrupted meal. "Bob, he'll lose out on
the head of the table. Shove down there one space, an' I'll put him
next to the boss."
"Ain't stuck up none," commented Tex, in a voice of approval.
"Huh," sneered Milk River Bill, "prob'ly one of these here _hombres_
that's afraid someone'll say somethin' he don't hear. Reason why
he's feedin' in here is so he can catch him an earful."
Tex grinned an irritating grin: "What you got to talk about that
ain't fit fer the boss to hear? Me--he's welcome to listen to all
the gems of thought that trickles off my chin."
"They ain't nothin' never trickled off'n it yet that was worth
listenin' to," retorted Milk River. "Personal, I'd ruther the coffee
coolers stayed on their own side of the fence, an' left us on ourn."
"Yeh," drawled Tex, "but the coffee coolers is the ones that makes
the rules, so what you think about it don't carry no heft, one way or
another."
The cook's head was thrust in from the kitchen: "Cut out that rowin'
in there, 'fore I rattle yer skulls together! If youse two wants to
go to war, go outside." The two thus admonished lapsed into silence,
for the cook was an autocrat whose authority was unquestioned within
his own domain, and one glance at the huge forearms was generally
sufficient to give color to that authority.
Connie and the foreman entered and took their places and the meal was
finished in silence, the boys pushing back from the table and leaving
the room as soon as their plates were empty.