This morning Still Bill Stover had more than his
customary share of trouble, for they seemed pessimistic.
Carara, for instance, breathed a Spanish oath as he combed his
hair, and when the foreman inquired the reason, replied:
"I don' sleep good. I been t'ink mebbe I lose my saddle on this
footrace."
Cloudy, whose toilet was much less intricate, grunted from the
shadows:
"I thought I heard that phonograph all night."
"It was the Natif Son singin' to his gal," explained one of the
hands. "He's gettin' on my nerves, too. If he wasn't a friend of
the boss, I'd sure take a surcingle and abate him considerable."
"Vat you t'ank? I dream' Mr. Speed is ron avay an' broke his
leg," volunteered Murphy, the Swede, whose name New Mexico had
shortened from Bjorth Kjelliser.
"Run away?"
"Ya-as! I dream' he's out for little ron ven piece of noosepaper
blow up in his face an' mak' him ron avay, yust same as horse. He
snort an' yump, an' ron till he step in prairie-dog hole and
broke his leg."
"Strange!" said Willie.
"What?"
"My rest was fitful and disturbed and peopled by strange fancies
a whole lot.
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