96 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 



into flame resentment that otherwise might have 

 smouldered harmlessly till it burned out. As we 

 were sitting together after supper, spinning yarns 

 and smoking, the cook suddenly marched into the 

 room, and bade the boss and the other cowboys be 

 gone into the hills, or where they pleased, but off 

 the ranch. He carried my Winchester rifle in his 

 hand, and as he spoke covered our group, which dis- 

 persed like a bevy of quail when a hawk circles 

 overhead. In a jiffy, none was left in that room 

 save the cook, my brother, and I. I cannot explain 

 why we stayed, but we had received no orders to go, 

 and we knew of course that the cook had no grudge 

 against us. Then followed a scene, ludicrous enough 

 now, but not so funny at the time. The cook para- 

 ded up and down the room, assuring us that he 

 was the King. To emphasise his claims, I remem- 

 ber, he fired into the ceiling two royal salutes, and 

 just then — it being moonlight outside — I saw a 

 dark figure, pistol in hand, flit past the open door. 

 There were two doors in the room exactly opposite 

 to each other. At the same time I saw another 

 figure, similarly armed, at the other door. The 

 King, apprehending danger, brought his rifle to his 

 shoulder, pointing it first to the right and then to 

 the left, according as the heads appeared and dis- 

 appeared. Meantime he waxed grimly facetious, 

 entreating the gentlemen outside to come in, or at 

 least to stand still, and so forth. The comic side of 

 it did not strike me till afterwards, because I was 

 wondering whether it would not be expedient to lie 

 down upon the floor, out of the line of fire, a posi- 

 tion commended by all tacticians of the West. 



