The piece de resistance was a monstrous platter heaped high with beefsteak, not the inviting meat of a restaurant in a civilized city, but thin, brown slabs, fried dry throughout.

The real nourishment was in the gravy in which the steak swam.

In a dish of even more amazing proportions was a vast heap of potatoes boiled with their jackets on.

Lawlor commenced loading the stack of plates before him, each with a slab and a potato or two.
Meantime from a number of big coffee pots a stream of a liquid, bitter as lye and black as night, was poured into the tin cups.

Yet the cattlemen about the table settled themselves for the meal with a pleasant expectation fully equal to that of the most seasoned gourmand in a Manhattan restaurant.
The peculiar cowboy's squint--a frowning of the brow and a compression of the thin lips--relaxed.