ently there was a sound of scuffing boots, and the wrangler rose to his feet. Barrett saw that he was offering his hand.
"Grubb is my name. Call me Fred," said the wrangler.
"Barrett is mine; call me Ed," the greenhorn returned, rising with alacrity to meet this friendly advance.
There was some turning and craning around the fire; two or three made a pretense of getting up for something else to see what was going forward between the wrangler and the greenhorn. The wrangler held to Barrett's hand with a paw as big, and almost as hard, as a horse's hoof. The glow of his cigarette showed that he was looking earnestly into the young stranger's face.
We'll pull together when you're all set.
I ain't much to see and I ain't much to hear,
But I stick to my friend like grease on a cheer,
And we'll pull together when you're all set,
Said Fred to Ed when they first met.
The wrangler delivered this in an earnest, low voice, giving Barrett's hand a mighty clamp at the end of his impromptu verse.
"Fine, old feller, fine!" Barrett praised him, forgetting for a moment the disquieting thing lying wrapped in tentcloth under the cedar tree.
"If you hear anybody speak of the poet of the Popo Agie, that's me. I'm the original and only cowboy,
