Easy come, easy go

Dignified as “Mr. Matthews” by virtue of his office, Tex acted host. The party seated themselves. The somewhat flustered cook, Tex assisting with the utensils, proceeded to serve from his cow-camp menu.

The 77 stoically swigged and champed. At last--

“All right, boys.” Tex had spoken from his feet. The horse-herd was in, confined by its rope corral. With creaking of joints the men rose from their post-prandial cigarettes, to take down their ropes from their saddles and to stump on to snare their afternoon mounts.

No joints protested more than those of Laramie,--“Laramie Red,”--who had been riding a hard-bitted horse all the morning and was due, he knew, to fork Old Thunder this afternoon.

The horses of one’s string, however, should be ridden turn about. Consequently Laramie flicked his noose for Old Thunder; and at the clap of the hemp around his neck, Old Thunder followed the trend of the rope. A mild-in-appearance, fly-bitten roan, he, with a sleepy eye--but with Roman nose and aggressive chocky head wherein obstinacy had its dwelling-place.

With “Oh!’s” and “Ah!’s” and sundry “By George! See that!” the tourist squad had taken station to observe the very simple operations of tossing a noose over a horse’s head, yanking him forth, and investing him with bridle, blanket and saddle, and man. Perhaps there was romance in this, too. Kin savvy? If so, it had been imported for the occasion.

“What a pretty horse!”

Laramie was conscious of blue eyes in a fair flushed face devouring his every motion--fascinated, maybe, by his flaming thatch, his largely freckled visage impervious to wind and weather, and his bowed legs set by thirty years of chasing cows.

But “Pretty hawss!” Old Thunder? Who’d ha’ thought it?

“What’s his name?”

“Satan, ma’am.”

“Oh!”

Laramie grimly continued with his routine. Old Thunder submitted, as if contemplating that period of coltship when he indeed might have been “pretty.” His retrospective mien portrayed docility.

“Here’s a genuine cow-pony,” pronounced the elderly man, who was doing the critical. “Hardy, obedient, faithful, the cowboy’s most valued partner. The real cowboy never abuses his horse. Depends on him too much. That’s why he changes mounts whenever he can. Well, people, you’re seeing the actual thing--the Western cowboy at work, off the films. That’s good. You know your business, my man.”

Laramie did not deign answer to that exalted address “My man.” He sensed the sly anticipation of his fellows as he gathered the lines, turned stirrup to his foot, and with hand to cheek strap and hand to mane vaulted aboard in single movement.

“Go!” somebody yapped.

Old Thunder exploded. Always did. But this present play caught Laramie in a frame of mind more savage than usual. Was he to be butchered for a tourist holiday? He gave the brute its head and raked with spurs relentless, to have the fit over with in short order. And ride he could, could Laramie Red, veteran of the range dating back to the long trails, to Abilene, Ogalalla and Miles City.

Cheers and cries attended upon him, inciting Old Thunder. His hat sailed free. After the preliminary cavorting, Thunder, true to his system, launched himself into furious straight-away out across the brush, with Laramie sitting heavily until the fit should expend.

And when he rocked in upon an Old Thunder, now satiated, to get his hat and to receive instructions for duty, he encountered a blast extraordinary.