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And, until you’ve seen a few men called out of their shacks for a friendly conversation, and shot when they happen to look away; or asked for a drink of water, and killed when they stoop to the spring; or potted from behind as they go into a room, it’s pretty hard to believe that any man can be so plumb lackin’ in fair play or pity or just natural humanity.

As you boys know, I come in from Texas to Buck Johnson’s about ten year back. I had a pretty good mount of ponies that I knew, and I hated to let them go at prices they were offerin’ then, so I made up my mind to ride across and bring them in with me. It wasn’t so awful far, and I figured that I’d like to take in what New Mexico looked like anyway.

About down by Albuquerque I tracked up with another outfit headed my way. There was five of them, three men, and a woman, and a yearlin’ baby. They had a dozen hosses, and that was about all I could see. There was only two packed, and no wagon. I suppose the whole outfit–pots, pans, and kettles–was worth five dollars. It was just supper when I run across them, and it didn’t take more’n one look to discover that flour, coffee, sugar, and salt was all they carried. A yearlin’ carcass, half-skinned, lay near, and the fry-pan was, full of meat.

“Howdy, strangers,” says I, ridin’ up.

They nodded a little, but didn’t say nothin’. My hosses fell to grazin’, and I eased myself around in my saddle, and made a cigareet. The men was tall, lank fellows, with kind of sullen faces, and sly, shifty eyes; the woman was dirty and generally mussed up. I knowed that sort all right. Texas was gettin’ too many fences for them.

“Havin’ supper?” says I, cheerful.

One of ’em grunted “Yes” at me; and, after a while, the biggest asked me very grudgin’ if I wouldn’t light and eat, I told them “No,” that I was travellin’ in the cool of the evenin’.

“You seem to have more meat than you need, though,” says I. “I could use a little of that.”

“Help yourself,” says they. “It’s a maverick we come across.”

I took a steak, and noted that the hide had been mighty well cut to ribbons around the flanks and that the head was gone.

“Well,” says I to the carcass, “No one’s going to be able to swear whether you’re a maverick or not, but I bet you knew the feel of a brandin’ iron all right.”

I gave them a thank-you, and climbed on again. My hosses acted some surprised at bein’ gathered up again, but I couldn’t help that.

“It looks like a plumb imposition, cavallos,” says I to them, “after an all-day, but you sure don’t want to join that outfit any more than I do the angels, and if we camp here we’re likely to do both.”

I didn’t see them any more after that until I’d hit the Lazy Y, and had started in runnin’ cattle in the Soda Springs Valley. Larry Eagen and I rode together those days, and that’s how I got to know him pretty well. One day, over in the Elm Flat, we ran smack on this Texas outfit again, headed north. This time I was on my own range, and I knew where I stood, so I could show a little more curiosity in the case.

“Well, you got this far,” says I.

“Yes,” says they.

“Where you headed?”

“Over towards the hills.”

“What to do?”

“Make a ranch, raise some truck; perhaps buy a few cows.”

They went on.

“Truck” says I to Larry, “is fine prospects in this country.”

He sat on his horse looking after them.

“I’m sorry for them” says he. “It must he almighty hard scratchin’.”