"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.