A RANCHMAN'S RECOLLECTIONS 



harmless Collies), and their combined kill of imagi- 

 nary coyotes promises to be big the coming winter. 

 He told me some fantastic tales, and at the close 

 added, "Every time one of us tells a big one, Mac 

 (the name by which he calls his father) tells one 

 a whole lot bigger. He sure is a windy." So per- 

 haps Curley is a victim of heredity. It has just 

 struck me as amusing that local color is not wanting 

 as I scribble, because I am writing in the caboose 

 of a stock train moving through a big pasture coun- 

 try. Just now, while we stopped for water, the 

 "ki-yi" of the coyote's discord sounded off in the 

 mesquite. I wonder whether the cry is striking 

 terror to the heart of some mother whose baby may 

 have strayed. There are no hoarse shouts, no 

 ghostly riders in the pale moonlight, and that strange 

 Providence that finds the lost ones when they stray 

 is watching over the tired little boys and girls, fast 

 asleep, straying perhaps with Peter Pan in his 

 frolics. 



Curley McNutt was at the time of this incident 

 four years old, a round-faced, flaxen-haired, sturdy 

 little fellow, wearing a perpetual grin. He had a 

 habit of repeating what he heard one say, prefacing 

 it by a short laugh. All ranch children make warm 

 friendships, which often amount to idolatry among 

 cowboys, who in turn have an absorbing love for 

 children. This love sometimes drifts into a sort of 

 slavery. 



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