When A Mans A Man | Page 7

I
don't take to it much myself, though." Then he added shrewdly, "You
were at the celebration, I reckon."
The stranger's voice betrayed quick enthusiasm, but that odd
wistfulness crept into his eyes again and he seemed to lose a little of his
poise.

"Indeed I was," he said. "I never saw anything to compare with it. I've
seen all kinds of athletic sports and contests and exhibitions, with
circus performances and riding, and that sort of thing, you know, and
I've read about such things, of course, but"--and his voice grew
thoughtful--"that men ever actually did them--and all in the day's work,
as you may say--I--I never dreamed that there were men like that in
these days."
The cowboy shifted his weight uneasily in the saddle, while he
regarded the man on the ground curiously. "She was sure a humdinger
of a celebration," he admitted, "but as for the show part I've seen things
happen when nobody was thinking anything about it that would make
those stunts at Prescott look funny. The horse racing was pretty good,
though," he finished, with suggestive emphasis.
The other did not miss the point of the suggestion. "I didn't bet on
anything," he laughed.
"It's funny nobody picked you up on the road out here," the cowboy
next offered pointedly. "The folks started home early this morning--and
Jim Reid and his family passed me about an hour ago--they were in an
automobile. The Simmons stage must have caught up with you
somewhere."
The stranger's face flushed, and he seemed trying to find some answer.
The cowboy watched him curiously; then in a musing tone added the
suggestion, "Some lonesome up here on foot."
"But there are times, you know," returned the other desperately, "when
a man prefers to be alone."
The cowboy straightened in his saddle and lifted his reins. "Thanks," he
said dryly, "I reckon I'd better be moving."
But the other spoke quickly. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Acton, I did not
mean that for you."

The horseman dropped his hands again to the saddle horn, and resumed
his lounging posture, thus tacitly accepting the apology. "You have the
advantage of me," he said.
The stranger laughed. "Everyone knows that 'Wild Horse Phil' of the
Cross-Triangle Ranch won the bronco-riding championship yesterday. I
saw you ride."
Philip Acton's face showed boyish embarrassment.
The other continued, with his strange enthusiasm. "It was great
work--wonderful! I never saw anything like it."
There was no mistaking the genuineness of his admiration, nor could he
hide that wistful look in his eyes.
"Shucks!" said the cowboy uneasily. "I could pick a dozen of the boys
in that outfit who can ride all around me. It was just my luck, that's
all--I happened to draw an easy one."
"Easy!" ejaculated the stranger, seeing again in his mind the fighting,
plunging, maddened, outlawed brute that this boy-faced man had
mastered. "And I suppose catching and throwing those steers was easy,
too?"
The cowboy was plainly wondering at the man's peculiar enthusiasm
for these most commonplace things. "The roping? Why, that was no
more than we're doing all the time."
"I don't mean the roping," returned the other, "I mean when you rode
up beside one of those steers that was running at full speed, and caught
him by the horns with your bare hands, and jumped from your saddle,
and threw the beast over you, and then lay there with his horns pinning
you down! You aren't doing that all the time, are you? You don't mean
to tell me that such things as that are a part of your everyday work!"
"Oh, the bull doggin'! Why, no," admitted Phil, with an embarrassed
laugh, "that was just fun, you know."

The stranger stared at him, speechless. Fun! In the name of all that is
most modern in civilization, what manner of men were these who did
such things in fun! If this was their recreation, what must their work be!
"Do you mind my asking," he said wistfully, "how you learned to do
such things?"
"Why, I don't know--we just do them, I reckon."
"And could anyone learn to ride as you ride, do you think?" The
question came with marked eagerness.
"I don't see why not," answered the cowboy honestly.
The stranger shook his head doubtfully and looked away over the wild
land where the shadows of the late afternoon were lengthening.
"Where are you going to stop to-night?" Phil Acton asked suddenly.
The stranger did not take his eyes from the view that seemed to hold for
him such peculiar interest. "Really," he answered indifferently, "I had
not thought of that."
"I should think you'd be thinking of it along about supper time, if
you've walked from town since morning."
The stranger looked up with sudden interest; but