6 THE LOG OF A TIMBER CRUISER 
and work half a year, to wish to find out as quickly 
as possible what each co-worker and companion is 
like, whether he is to be looked upon as a ‘‘good 
fellow’’ or a ‘‘grouch,’’ a blessing or a pest. No 
one knew much of Horace or his antecedents. 
Frazer had, it is true, heard in a roundabout way 
that the new man was experienced in cruising. But 
in the matter of his personality we were wholly 
ignorant. 
The train drew in on time, a rare enough phenom- 
enon, and we watched the passengers eagerly. Two 
cowpunchers got off first. They had evidently been 
to the city—Albuquerque or El Paso, most likely 
—and were dressed in gala attire. Everything one 
wore was duplicated by the other; they were alike 
as a pair of spurs. Each, perhaps, had feared to 
draw upon himself the ridicule of the other by dis- 
playing any unique detail of town-bought finery. 
Grinning sheepishly, they greeted a solemn group 
of friends with formality and shook hands all round 
in angular, pump-handle fashion. The new black 
Stetsons, red neckties and polished boots seemed to 
impart to their friends as well as to themselves an 
uneasy self-consciousness, and by common consent 
the crowd headed almost at once for the nearest 
bar, to dissolve in drink the uncomfortable stiffness 
of the reunion. 
John Ferguson, a cowman, back from a month’s 
business trip, waved to us as he hastened toward 
his wife, who sat behind a team of restive po- 
