Then he rustles for his
gun an' we rustles for town," answered Waffles, laughing at his
remembrance of it.
As Frenchy was about to reply his sombrero was snatched from his
head and disappeared. If he "got mad" he was to be regarded as not
sufficiently well acquainted for banter and he was at once in hot
water; if he took it good-naturedly he was one of the crowd in spirit;
but in either case he didn't get his hat without begging or fighting
for it. This was a recognized custom among the O-Bar-O outfit and was
not intended as an insult.
Frenchy grabbed at the empty air and arose. Punching Lefty playfully
in the ribs he passed his hands behind that person's back. Not finding
the lost head-gear he laughed and, tripping Lefty up, fell with him
and, reaching up on the table for his glass, poured the contents down
Lefty's back and arose.
"Yu son-of-a-gun!" indignantly wailed that unfortunate. "Gee, it
feels funny," he added, grinning as he pulled the wet shirt away from
his spine.
"Well, I've got to be amblin'," said Frenchy, totally ignoring the
loss of his hat. "Goin' down to Buckskin," he offered, and then asked,
"When's yore cook comin'?"
"Day after to-morrow, if he don't get loaded," replied Tex.
"Who is he?"
"A one-eyed Mexican-Quiensabe Antonio."
"I used to know him. He's a heck of a cook. Dished up th' grub one
season when I was punchin' for th' Tin-Cup up in Montana," replied
Frenchy.
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