A RANCHMAN'S RECOLLECTIONS 



outfit — thet was an outfit, all of 'em foremen now — 

 there never was no better, an' them was the days 

 of outfits, too. But when enyone tells you 'bout a 

 foreman thet never lost a herd I'm a-goln' to show 

 you a foreman thet never trailed much or throwed 

 in with Providence on fair weather. 



"We got an early start; the steers traveled off 

 brisk; the outfit was feelin' good an' the 'cussy' put 

 up a regular Thanksgivin' dinner. The mornin' was 

 fine, but about two in the evenin' the breeze layed 

 'em down an' thundercaps begin to pile up like high 

 pinnacles. The steers seemed to sniff somethin' ; the 

 air got thick. We watered at the lake on the edge 

 of the Jane Wilson League, and give 'em a long, loose 

 herd up to the bed ground, jest as the sun was makin' 

 camp — and sech a sunset! There was somethin' creep- 

 in' about it; made you think of cities on fire an' big 

 clouds o' smoke, with the red o' the flames showin' 

 through, an' then it died into a sick-like yaller, with 

 green trimmin's. The thunder was a moanin' and 

 mutterin' like a sick hound off in the mesquites. There 

 was a stiddy flashin', and now and then them forked 

 boys would work out like a crazy man throwin' a 

 rope. It was dead-still, like waitin' at a funeral for 

 the preacher to begin' and everybody was quiet, too, 

 'cept Obe Hogan. If anybody ever starts a school 

 to teach cussin' and swearin' Obe sure gits the high 

 job. He kept commentin' an' remarkin' about things 

 in general an' the clouds in particular in a way thet 



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