Everybody was busy at the Horseshoe Bend. The annual beef roundup of nearly a month’s duration was just three days distant. While the number of stock was less than in former years, the range was wide and it still required many skilled riders with relay of horses to accomplish the work with celerity. That was why John Carter and his foreman were anxiously engaging help to fill out their quota of men. The boys were overhauling chaps, bridles and saddles, oiling rawhide ropes and grooming horses. Each vied in going into the field with the best conditioned equipment; nor must theirs be second to any of the other outfits with which they were to come in contact. All silver mountings were burnished to glittering splendor. “War bags” were carefully made up, consisting of one change of underwear, socks, a top shirt and plenty of “tobaccy.” Bedding, tents, and many necessaries used on the range were being methodically collected. A cook for the chuck-wagon and a rangler for the saddle-string were yet to be secured.

As Cogewea came from the teepee where she had taken food for the Stemteemä, a stranger approached on horseback. The dogs ran at him, barking furiously and his spirited cayuse whirled, snorting; the rider saving himself by clutching the saddle-horn. The girl noticed that he bounced in the saddle like a rubber ball, also that he wore a green flannel shirt and that when he dismounted, his buckskin breeches bagged at the knee. They were of a style seen only in the early days of the West, and appeared out of place even on the Flathead. He wore high-heeled boots, a broad sombrero, and a scarlet kerchief was about his neck. Cogewea had nearly laughed at the comical figure. She divined at a glance that he was a tenderfoot trying to play the role of a real westerner, even to the formidable looking six-gun at his belt. He doffed his hat with a sweeping bow and a polite: “Bonjour!” to which she returned a cheery: “Hell‑o!” He then spoke:

“I wassasoom blee-ad!”

“Some what?”

“Blee-ad! I wassa soom le-tal blee-ad.”

“Aw! shake yourself. Speak English!”

“Mon-dieu! I wassa soom blee-ad! soom le-tal bis-a-cat!”

“Oh! you want a cat, a little kitten?” Cogewea laughed amusedly. “Well, we have none to spare. We are short of cats just now; stock all run down. Can book your order.”

“Sac‑ré!” he almost screamed, throwing up his hands in despair. “I wassa blee-ad! soom bis-a-cat. You let-a me star-ruv; go hun-gar-reé?”

Mary, hearing the “stampede” from the veranda, called to her sister that it was bread, or biscuit that the stranger was asking for. He was liberally supplied and as he passed the gate, Jim accosted him and after a few moments conversation the stranger proceeded on his way. But within an hour he returned with a companion and one packhorse. Both were employed to help on the roundup and were soon known as “Frenchy” and “Jake.” The latter, Jaquis De Mont, a cook, was assigned to the chuck-wagon. Frenchy, whose name was Eugene La Fleur, was elected rangler of the saddle-string. The scion of a wealthy Parisian family, he had been struck by the American craze, eventually drifting to the Flathead in quest of adventure. It afterwards developed that he had only recently dined at a Chinese restaurant and asking the waiter the name for bread, had been answered: “Blee-ad.” This, the Frenchman had repeated over and over to himself that he might not forget. Meeting with Jaquis, who had long been connected with the range, he became infatuated with the picturesque life of the riders so graphically depicted, and determined to become a “real” cowboy. Talkative and of a verdant nature, he was destined to become the brunt of many a rude joke. Confiding, he believed implicitly all that was told him, never seeming to comprehend that he was being victimized.

“That there Frenchy is too easy pickin’ for a rec’eation,” commented Rodeo Jack that evening, as he sat smoking with Silent Bob near the bunkhouse door.

“Ya‑a‑s!” drolled the Silent One. “He’s like them there P’ilisters, what Paul tol’ ’bout. Swat him on one jaw an’ he turns ‘tothern for yo’.’ I hater take candy from er scrapless kid; I hater scratch er bronc what has no buck.”

“I bet he’s a moosical cuss an’ can sing,” broke in Celluloid Bill, as he joined the smokers. “He’s got laighs jus’ like a canary.”

The boys soon learned to like Frenchy, for his game qualities. Carter congratulated him on being a sport to the backbone; explained that the boys meant no harm but were a lot of fine fellows and that it was a part of the range diversion which all newcomers must endure before they could become good cowpunchers. The Parisian had really accepted work on the ranch merely to ride and in time he succeeded, but not until after many falls and truly hard bumps. Like a child learning to walk; when thrown he got up, brushed the dust from his buckskins and was ready for another try. If he was to become a rider, he thought, the bruises and scratches were the price. The victim of Croppy, he was hurled half across the corral, but he came back smiling. He took it all as a course of necessity, it never dawning on him that he was being duped and affording amusement for others.

“It beats hell how that French guy eats dirt and keeps a goin’,” commented Jim as he left the corral on the evening of Frenchy’s first day. “He ain’t none like that there dood tenderfoot, who can’t get off a hoss without hurtin his‑self.”

Frenchy had been at the ranch two days, and noting that all the riders had clean clothes for the roundup, decided that he, too, must do some washing. So after nightfall he repaired to the river, disrobed and gave his ancient buckskins a thorough scrubbing. He then carefully hung them on the corral fence, where the boys assured him the warm wind would dry them before morning. He had scarce repaired to his bunk when the riders were busy at his breeches. With low laughter, Bill caught the waistband, while Jim and Bob took each a leg. They pulled until the leather would stretch no more. Wet buckskin is very elastic, and when returned to the fence, the garb had no semblance to its former self. The trio then went to their bunks with unconcerned gravity.

Next morning the unsuspecting Frenchy was up before day break to get his breeches. What was his dismay to find them almost dry and twice their usual length, while the legs were no more than the width of a shirtsleeve. He hurried to the bunkhouse greatly excited. Wildly gesticulating, he talked so fast that no one could understand him. He was in despair. He had no other change except his French dress suit, nor could he get into his newly laundered buckskins. The boys were all ignorant as to what could possibly have happened to them.

“I bet it’s the wrong time of moon to scrub buckskin,” volunteered Jim. “I forgot to think ’bout it last night. I always heard my grandmother say not to wash buckskin till the moon changed.”

“Aw! come off!” exclaimed Celluloid Bill. “Them there breeches was hung up too wrong. Yo’ oughter hang ’em north side up, same as th’ pole on a map.”

“Naw! yo’ fellers is ’way off!” broke in Rodeo Jack. “I betcher a Wahbegosh has been a stretchin’ uv them breecherloons. I see th’ tracks uv a big ’un yesterday as I come over the upper trail. It was a headin’ in this directions, but I didn’t s’pose it would cross th’ river, ’cause they don’t like no water ’ceptin’ is it ocean deep. Wahbegoshes are hell at pullin’ breecher laigs.”

“It’s a strather in th’ air, what done th’ work,” drolled Silent Bob. “When it strikes ’em on t’other side fust, it ’spans ’em; but if it hits ’em t’other side las’, it shrunks ’em up an’ ’longates ’em. I hater see them there fine breeches in such onfashion’ble shape; I hater see Frenchy a riding’ th’ roun’up with naiked laigs.”

At length, Jake, feeling sorry for his pardner, took the buckskins to the river and moistening his hands, rubbed the garb damp and worked it back to its original shape. Frenchy got into his clothing just as the tin pan sounded for breakfast⁠—the last meal at the ranch table for the next three weeks.

The outfit was soon under way, moving across the great flats to the range hills reaching far up into the higher mountains. Densmore, now fully recovered, was left with a helper in charge of the ranch. He was not at all averse to this arrangement. With Jim eliminated for so long a time, he felt confident of his ability to win Cogewea to his deep set plans. He was sure that the aged grandmother was against him, which was of no small moment, since the girl was devoted to her and often sought her counsel. But he determined to bend all energies to winning the old squaw’s favor, and to this end he employed commendable zeal, had it been more honorably directed.

But the Easterner had not reckoned with the Indian character!