The Ranch of the Tombstones

The man in the lead was a tall, thin, unshaven cowboy, with a long, sad countenance and a pair of bright, grin-wrinkled eyes. He rode standing straight in his saddle, with the brim of his sombrero pulled down over his eyes.

The other man was shorter, heavier, with a heavy-lined face and half-shut eyes. A few strands of roan-colored hair straggled from under the brim of his hat, which rested on the back of his head.

They drew rein and looked the place over. The tall one nodded toward the side of the house, and they both rode around to the rear, from whence came the sound of a voice raised in anger.

“Cook!” exclaimed the voice scornfully. “You? Huh! Do yuh think the Half-Moon outfit wear steel bills and digests their food through a gizzard? Why, dang yore hide, yuh can’t even burn stuff decently. Set yoreself up to cook fer an outfit, do yuh? Where’d you learn to cook? Cook, ——! Yo’re fired! No, I don’t want to hear yuh explain how yuh got drunk on one li’l drink and forgot which way home was. No sir! Pack yore war-bag and drift. I’ve got enough troubles without annexin’ a lot of bad stummicks around here. Yo’re fired; sabe? If you can’t understand English, I’ll write it out in Swedish and mail it to yuh.”

The tall cowboy’s face wrinkled into a grin, and he started to say something to his companion, but just at that moment a woman opened the kitchen-door and looked out at them.

She was a tiny wisp of a woman, dressed in faded calico. About fifty years of age, with a mild, sweet face and soft, blue eyes. She stared at the two cowboys for a moment, and a flush crept into her tanned face.