Texas,
he's going to call the dances. Music from Gimlet Butte. Y'u want
to get it tucked away in your thinker that this dance ain't on
the order of culls. No, sirree, it's cornfed."
"Glad to hear of it. I'll cipher out somehow to be there, Slim."
Slim's glance took in the ranchhouse again. He had ridden
twenty-three miles out of his way to catch a glimpse of the newly
arrived mistress of the Lazy D, the report of whose good looks
and adventures had traveled hand in hand through many canons even
to the heart of the Tetons. It had been on Skunk Creek that he
had heard of her three days before, and now he had come to verify
the tongue of rumor, to see her quite casually, of course, and do
his own appraising. It began to look as if he were going to have
to ride off without a glimpse of her.
He nodded toward the house, turning a shade more purple than his
native choleric hue. "Y'u want to bring your boss with y'u, Mac.
We been hearing a right smart lot about her and the boys would
admire to have her present. It's going to be strictly according
to Hoyle--no rough-house plays go, y'understand."
"I'll speak to her about it." Mac's deep amusement did not reach
the surface.
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