"Where did you go from there?" she inquired, the 'woman having passed out of sight, leaving at least a divided portion of Mrs. Cowgill's interest behind.
"I rambled back to Wyoming; I had a lot of good friends in Wyoming. They're the dancin'est crowd of people up there you ever saw, kep' me fiddlin' till I nearly forgot how to pick a banjo at all. But places are so darned far apart in that country it wears a man out travellin' around. I never would 'a' been able to make it around to all of 'em if a feller hadn't made me a gift of a horse, one of them little pinto horses with spots on him, the kind they call a calico horse back in Missouri."
"You must 'a' stood well with them, Banjo."
"Yes, I picked up more money there than I ever made before in my life, and I guess I could 'a' married one of them cowgirls and settled down if I'd 'a' cared enough about any of 'em to take a chance. They're too big and wild for me, I'm here to say. They sling a man's heels off of the floor when they swing, and slap him to sleep if he gives 'em any slack. I like a girl my arm'll reach around, and I like 'em that can take a joke."
Banjo looked rueful; his tone was indignantly resentful. Unpleasant memories appeared to rise beneath his striped shirt of the Wyoming maidens who were dull to the piquant humor of a roving musician.
"It might 'a' been better for you, Banjo, if you'd stayed up in that country and settled down on a ranch."
"Maybe I would if they hadn't got to shootin' the
