OUT WHERE THE WEST BEGINS 



demeanor snapped, and like a mountain lion he sprang 

 from the line, fists up and clenched. 



"Look here! I'm man enough to lick any 



man i n this 



outfit, or any officer either, that tries to tell me how 

 I've got to turn around." 



Orders to entrain for Camp Withycombe at Clacka- 

 mas came. Portland, always such a loyal friend to 

 Pendleton and the Round-Up, seemed to turn out en 

 masse as the outfit went through, while word that the 

 Pendleton bunch was arriving, set the entire camp agog. 

 But if they expected a slicked-up, uniformed nurse- 

 maids-to-horses troop to march with eyes front and 

 120 steps to the minute, they had a surprise — 

 for of all the picturesque, care-free, self-contained 

 contingents that ever pulled into camp this "wild 

 bunch" was the wooliest outfit. There was no senti- 

 ment lost in their make-up, although there was a lot 

 to be found in it. 



The only uniform they swung, was that of their 

 calling. Their broad-brimmed sombreros with leather 

 strap or braided band of horsehair went a-wobbling 

 and a-milling by like a herd of steers; red or other 

 colored shirts and kerchiefs with heavy trousers, most 

 of them tucked into high-heeled boots, covered their 

 lean, hard-muscled figures as they clumped along through 

 the company streets. A few wore chapps, but under 

 the coat of almost every man- Jack of them there 

 slightly bulged the handle of a .45, concealed like a 

 bustle on behind. 



It was a hard, he-man bunch, but no harder than the 

 big barrel of cider which headed the procession, flanked 

 on either side by the captain and lieutenants respective- 

 ly, followed by the thirsty gang. 



33 



