“Why, Cogewea!” exclaimed Mary, as they hurriedly prepared for the longed-for social the following evening. “Are you taking two baskets⁠—the canoe and that other fancy⁠—”

Cogewea spoke in an undertone to her sister, who laughed musically, but said nothing. Soon everything was packed and the girls were helping Julia with the children. Cogewea, understanding the nature of man, that he should not, under any circumstances, be kept waiting, lest he become grouchy, was hurrying her sisters, that they might meet Silent Bob as soon as he drove to the gate. They heard the rattle of the heavy hack and the driver’s unnecessarily loud:

“Who! thar’ Prince! Whoa, Jerry! I hater have yo’ a stan’in’ here so long! I hater hav yo’ a eatin’ stake-oats all the time.”

Snatching up the children and the baskets, they hastened out. Cogewea helped the fledglings to the rear seat with their mother and Mary, then clambered to her place at Bob’s side. That worthy had held the “ribbons of four” over a stage route in the Rockies, and to display his proud skill, flourished his long lash⁠—which he ever carried⁠—with a report like the shot of a pistol. The fiery bays leaping forward, went spinning around the road-curve at a speed to frighten an inexperienced out of his wits. The mad pace was kept until the upper grade through the coulee was reached. As the team quieted down, Cogewea spoke:

“Now Bob, own up that a man does not like to wait for a woman!”

The Jehu turned his head to eject a quid of tobacco before answering:

“Ev’ry man hates ter wait for anybody.”

“Yes, I know! But it’s women they hate most to wait for; and yet they seem to think that woman was made to wait for them. They do not consider the daily heartaches of a waiting woman, most of whom spend their best days loitering on the trail⁠—waiting on the slow movements of some man⁠—not all of them married women either. A few are out here on this flat.”

The pun was entirely lost on Silent Bob, who manifested great interest in his bays. Cogewea was lighthearted and did most of the talking. She joked Mary about Frenchy, whom she had observed silently admiring the shy girl as she came out on the veranda, dressed for the trip. Her light suit brought out the beauty of a rich complexion to the best advantage; while her clear blue eyes shaded by long dark lashes, were brilliant with the joy of anticipation. Her stately form and graceful movements would have been as much in keeping at a court of fashion, as with the picturesque surroundings of a western cattle ranch. Cogewea had covertly designated Mary’s basket to the Parisian, with the hope that he would be a successful bidder for it at the coming auction. Jim, too, had remarked this courtly scion of France gazing enraptured after the girl as the hack dashed through the gate; and smiling, muttered under his breath:

“The poor frog-eatin’ fool! Makin’ eyes at that there breed-gal who ain’t got no more heart than her witch-sister!”

The instant the hack had disappeared at the bend, Slim of the Foot Hills, approaching Frenchy very confidentially, inquired:

“Yo’ goin’ with me to th’ big doin’s, ain’ yo’?”

Displaying a roll of bills, which Slim afterwards declared to be “ ’nough to stumble a bronc,” the Parisian exclaimed:

“I go zee zonzibél! I pay ze baz-ze-keét; zee Frenchee genzemon. Zee lee-teel von, zee zeneder voot. Zee biget loff!”

“Then come on quick!” urged Slim, as he led the way to the corral. “Le’s saddle up! It’s gittin’ late an’ th’ baskets’ll be all sold a fore we git there. Throw yo’ saddle on yo’ buckskin an’ le’s ride! Th’ sun’s mos’ down an’ we a slackin’ time with fifteen miles to unreel. Don’t draw th’ cinch too tight! It’ll bust yo’ hoss’s wind.”

By this time, he of the Foot Hills had his horse saddled and all ready to start. Frenchy was somewhat slower, but soon his mount was also in complete trim for the road. He surveyed his soiled apparel dubiously, then pointing to Slim’s equally reprehensible “duds,” questioned:

“Likee zat! zee gran’ veste-vál?”

“Sho’ thin’! Real cowboys never dress for s’ciety like yo’ city chaps. If yo’ go all dood-toggl’d up, th’ gals won’t dance with yo’. They’d only laugh an’ make sport of yo’. Jus’ cinch that there belt o’ yourn a bit tighter. Too durn’ loose for dancin’. After buyin’ yo’ gal’s basket, yo’ can loosen it up for th’ big feed.”

Poor Frenchy! He had understood but little of the foreman’s instructions relative to dress the evening before, and now drew his worn leather belt considerably tighter, which gave him a most comical appearance. His ancient buckskin breeches, wrinkled and bagged at the knee, were dust-stormed and discolored after the prolonged roundup. His blue flannel shirt, minus buttons, was open at the throat, while a worn silk handkerchief was knotted about his neck. High heeled boots and a slouchy sombrero, tilted jauntily to one side, only added to the wild grotesqueness of his figure.

“There, now!” exclaimed the hero of the Foot Hills, as he surveyed his “pard” of the evening admiringly. “Yo’ll sho’ be th’ ’vent of th’ ’casion. Not many buckskin garbs in this here country an’ th’ gals’ll all fall over theirselfs to git the fust dance wit yo’. Yo’re to be ’gratulated! Yo’ couldn’t a struck no gen’elman more ’sperienced in s’ciety ways than who’s a talkin’. Yo’ bet! It’s scripter to take a stranger in, and yo’ inter’sts is a goin’ be well looked af’er. France’ll be proud when she hears of th’ high ’tainmen of her son in Ameriky’s most ’lete s’ciety. It’s sho’ fortunat’ for th’ world that th’ main Smoke of the Foot Hills is with yo’ to night.”

The two rode away, Frenchy in blissful ignorance that the night previous, in a “pitch” card game, it fell to Slim to see that the “toy” was properly apparelled for the party. Hardly were they in the saddle when the boys at the bunkhouse were all busy with shaving materials, jostling each other for places before the one broken wall-mirror.

They had soon donned their best clothes, flashy silk shirts and handkerchiefs. The inevitable high-riding boot and broad hat were retained as an inseparable adjunct to the cowpuncher’s regalia, under all circumstances.

Amid joking and untrammeled merriment, the gay cavalcade filed from the corral, following the two departed riders. Densmore was with them. For a time he rode in the rear and alone, but Celluloid Bill dropping back, fell in with him, engaging in conversation. The topic drifted, but finally Bill settled down to a descriptive detail of the recent roundup, telling in general the number of hoofs each stockman owned. Carter’s wealth was mostly in horses, but he boasted a goodly number of cattle, while Cogewea could lay claim to more than two thousand bovines on the one range. Thirteen hundred and seventy-five of these had recently been sold as beef at the banner price of the season; with delivery six weeks later. Her band of fifteen hundred horses in the June roundup were considered the best on the Flathead. Seven hundred and fifty of these were then contracted, but were yet to be “cut” from the herd. The money was then in bank, subject to her order as soon as the stock could be delivered.

The Easterner gasped! He had never dreamed that Cogewea possessed property other than the land of which she had spoken. He kept his meditations to himself, but cautiously asked about her acres, if any. Bill was not sure on this point, other than that he knew of one fine allotment and a few range sections in a body. However, Rodeo Jack knew all about this part of her possessions.

“That there breed-gal,” Bill confided, “is sho’ still ’bout her wealth. Don’t say nothin’! ’Pears to think if it gets known she has dough, she’ll get trapped by some fortun’ hunter ’long th’ hitchin’ lines. Denies ownin’ any horses an’ cattle. But I know! ’cause I was in both roun’ups. Rodeo got it ’bout her land from Carter, who wants her to marry Jim. Somebody’ll get a fine layout, who can rope her in. But he’ll hafter go some! Injun blood an’ skittisher nor a wild bronc’.”

The opera hall was all ablaze and the crowd gathering, when Slim and his “pard” reached Polson. But to hold the joke for the other boys, he proposed to Frenchy that they go to the pool room for a few games before repairing to the gathering. It was, he contended, too early for the social to open anyhow. The “toy” readily consented, never dreaming of what was in store for him. They played until Slim thought it time for the riders to be there, when he suddenly said:

“Watcher say, Frenchy! Let’s go to th’ big doin’s now.”

“O’ritz! I ess redée!”

They gained the street and strains of music was wafted from the place of gathering. This hushed as they reached the jammed doorway. Drifting in with the crowd, Slim very adroitly guided his “pard” out onto the vacant floor. The Parisian gazed around, surprised. He was startled to see everybody dressed in their best. He instantly comprehended the meanness of the joke played him, and attempted to leave the hall. But, to the great amusement of the spectators, the boys would not permit him to pass the door. A tenderfoot was being “broken in.”

Baffled, the victim shrank into the shadows away from his tormenters. He was humiliated and ashamed of his absurd and fantastic attire. He loathed the buckskins which he had imagined made him so much a real westerner. Aside from the “sporty” riders who flashed in gaudy, silken makeups he saw the men of this remote hamlet in actual cuffs and collars which he had supposed to be wholly unknown. The many bunkhouse and roundup jokes he did not mind, but this was the most brutal thrust of them all. Yet, while it was almost beyond endurance, he determined to bear his misfortune with apparent good grace and lay to be avenged⁠—at least on Slim of the Foot Hills.

Thus nursing his wounded pride, the Parisian sat in his shadowy corner, and saw the shy-girl dancing with some of the rangers. He noted the small feet, how lightly they touched the floor and the glide was that of the woods-nymph. This privilege, he had hoped for, as well as the joy of bidding for her basket. Never, since leaving old France, had he felt so homesick and desolate. A collegian and from an aristocratic family, he had moved in the most exclusive circles of the Old World, but here, in Democratic America, he felt to be a social outcast. Not a woman there but would refuse him a dance.

Near midnight, the floor manager announced the sale of the baskets. The auctioneer mounted a table and began crying bids. Slim approached Frenchy, smiling broadly as if he had never in all his career perpetrated an unsavory joke. The rider was resplendent in the gala clothes which had been smuggled to him by his associates. His manner was one of supreme innocence as he addressed the “toy.”

“Now partner, it’s time yo’ show yo’ ’preciation. Come an’ bid on yo’ gal’s basket.”

“Aw come on!” he urged, as Frenchy silently shook his head. “If yo’ too bashful, I’ll bid for yo’.”

The victim’s face softened. Fondling his roll, he replied in the most confidential undertone:

“Eff mak’ pay fortee dollar! Zee Frenchee genzeemon no pay leetl’ monee. I spiek zee bazakeét!”

“Sho’ thin’!” exulted the Smoke of the Foot Hills, slapping the “toy” familiarly on the shoulder. “Yo’ gota right idee an’ leave it to ol’ Slim to manage for yo’. Yo’ cause is in han’s of yo’ best frien’!”

The plotter then hunted up Rodeo Jack and that confederate nearly doubled at what was whispered in his ear. He immediately took his place on the opposite side of the auctioneer, while Slim went back to the victim in the corner. He nudged Frenchy when an exceedingly pretty basket was offered. There was a negative shake of the head. Presently when a plain, though tasty basket was displayed, Slim received a poke in the ribs with:

“Geet ’im!”

The accommodating rider stepping forward, bid a dollar and was promptly raised by Rodeo. The bidding grew steady and at times fierce. The audience became hushed in expectancy. Slim, who had only recently drifted in from the ranges of Wyoming, was a practical stranger, but it was known that the rivals were both of the H-B outfit.

“Whose basket can it be?”

This question was bandied throughout the hall, as the auctioneer’s stentorian voice called:

“Fifteen dollars!” The banner bid of the evening but now⁠—“Eighteen!⁠—twenty!⁠—twenty two!⁠—twenty four!⁠—twenty five!⁠—twenty six!⁠—twenty eight⁠—twenty nine!⁠—twenty nine!⁠—Do I hear thirty? Wough! Thirty one!⁠—thirty three!⁠—thirty thr⁠—five! Thirty five. Who will make it⁠—There you are! Thirty six! thirty si⁠—seven! Thirty seven! Do I get a raise? Nothing near its worth! Come one! Last call without a bid! Thirty sev⁠—thirty eight! thirty eight! All in at thirty eight? Hit ’er up! A good cause! a Church cause. A heavy feed well cooked with the cookee thrown in! Hit the grit there, you sunbeam from the cactus plains of Texas! Jingle the kale for the object of your⁠—”

But Rodeo, throwing up his hands, turned aside. The crier barked:

“And sold! at thirty-eight dollars to the unidentified gentleman partner of the buckskin negligee. Here, take your property and pay the Deacon afterwards. We trust you because we do not know you.”

At this good natured thrust, the spectators roared and gave the victorious contestant a hearty “three and a tiger.” But too generous to reap renown which rightfully belonged to another, he of the Foot Hills sprang upon a chair and holding aloft the modest looking basket, bellowed:

“La‑dees an’ gen’lmen! I ain’t no speecher, nor I ain’t no s’ciety dood to sail under no false colored buntin’. This here twopeople grub has been bargained for by proxa; an’ th’ ’praised val’er of same is a going be likerdated by the fust an’ only ’ristocat of Paris; where range th’ toad-eatin’ pervi’ers of fashun. As his ’steemed pard, I ropes this occasion to in’duce to yo’ the only Buckskin Frenchy of th’ noted H-B ranch. Ho! there Ol’ hoss in the co’ner! Come on with yo’ dough an’ take yo’ belt fillin’; which I bets don’t ’clude no fried water-chicken. Yo’ is a lucky coyote, an’ yo’ gal ain’t got nothin’ on yo’ in this here soc’al tran’fixion.”

The Smoke of the Foot Hills was again greeted with a storm of applause, ending in a regular stampede for the now suddenly popular Parisian. But the “only ’risto-cat,” taking advantage of the excitement during the rival bidding, had, unobserved, slipped through the door and ran like a hunted deer for the livery where his horse was sheltered. With nervous haste he saddled the buckskin, and leaping to its back, left on a mad gallop for the ranch. The night was pitchy dark and he had been over the unfenced trail-road only twice. Out on the big flat he lost his way, and circled for an hour, when he recalled having heard the rangers say that in such case, if a horse is given the rein, it will always come safely through. This he did and in due time, reached the bunkhouse, bordering on exhaustion. He was enjoying the warmth of his blankets and sound asleep when the other boys arrived an hour later.

In the meantime, when it was discovered that the buckskinned “ ’ristocat” had departed, there was a murmur of disappointment; but when the full import of the retaliatory ruse played on the lanky cowpuncher, by the absconded Frenchman, became known, there was a prolonged outburst of unrestrained hilarity.

“Yo’ was caught with yo’ rope a trailin’ that time ol’ skate!”

“Set ’em up to th’ frog eater!”

“Draw yo’ cinch an’ try for th’ finals! yo’ wanderin’ son of benighted Wyomin’!”

“Yo’ trained th’ overseas duck too well!” yelled a voice at the door. “He ain’t no longer no tenderfoot!”

These, and similar cries greeted the discomfited Smoke of the Foot Hills, as he “dug up” for the basket. He accepted the jibes with good grace, contending that he knew the owner of “this here feed” and that it was worth the price.

As basket after basket was proferred, the H-B contingent made it lively for the city visitants; but Silent Bob held aloof. Noting this, Jim accosted him:

“Why don’t you get a move on? You’ll get left without a feed if you don’t rustle ’round and do some biddin’. Schoolmarm’s baskets is a bein’ sold now. Don’t forget you’re from the Hoss-shoe Bend.”

“Waitin’ for the feed box showin’ th’ right bran’,” was the drawling reply. “When it ’pears, I’ll chip in a plenty. At presen’, I’m a restin’ from my laborin’. I hater be a hollerin’ so durn much; I hater tire myself a talkin’.”

As all things come to those who wait, the Silent one finally got his “feed” at fifteen dollars.

The canoe was the last offered. Jim, true to his declaration was a loyal bidder; Rodeo and Celluloid his principal opponents. The city guys manifested but little interest above the three dollar mark. The canoe, tastily decorated with tricolored ribbons and sprigs of evergreen, was held aloft by the auctioneer, who expatiated on the evident merits of its builder and the super-qualities of its cargo. There was at last a lull in the mad riot of contending bids, punctuated with:

“And sold! to the foreman of the H-B Ranch, for forty-one dollars a truly silver weighted, deep water sounding line.”

Again the audience was wild with applause. The Horseshoe “Benders” were tendered an ovation. They had carried off the three banner baskets of the evening.

With his canoe under his arm, Jim talked and joked with friends and acquaintances. Everybody was hunting for partners, some to a realization of joy, others to disappointment. But all was harmony and good will. The foreman made his way to where he had last observed Cogewea. He suddenly stopped, dumbfounded. There sat the object of his search by the side of the tenderfoot. She was unfolding a napkin, disclosing the dainties of a tidy basket. The contents were most appetizing. Approaching, Jim touched her arm. Tapping the side of the canoe, he spoke evenly:

“Sis, I thought this here was your feed.”

“You did?” in mock surprise. “Has it my name? Is Cogewea on the card?”

“Why!⁠—I⁠—I⁠—haven’t looked!” was the stammered reply.

“Well, you better search for the brand. There may be some mistake.”

The Westerner lifted the corner of the cover and took up an embossed card. “Blank!” was written across its face. For a brief moment he stood silently, and then in an undertone addressed her:

“You think you’ve played one hell of a trick, now don’t you! I didn’t think⁠—”

“Aw! now Jim, come off! What’s hurting you? That canoe is not the first craft to sail under false colors. Besides,” continued Cogewea with twinkling eyes, “you should be generous enough to recognize that all is fair in⁠—in certain phases of life. It may be piratical, but you had a gallant crew to help you plan and effect its capture, had you not?”

Jim saw the cunning trap in which he had been caught and despite his bitter disappointment, he felt an increasing admiration for the girl. Perhaps he had been served right. Intuitively, his mind flashed back to that secret council of war in the main corral, the previous evening. He chilled! Vacancies as well as walls could sometimes have ears.

“By gollies, little squ⁠—Sis!” he exclaimed with sudden impulse. “You’re a trump! But you’r nawtical reckonin’ was all wrong this time. You turned this here boat driftin’ with a mine in the hold, expectin’ somebody to get blowed to kingdom come when they boarded it. You didn’t count on the secret treasure it carried⁠—a code number calling for a fine pearl-set solid gold brooch⁠—a sure glitterin’ prize for rescuin’ so splendid a craft from getting’ wrecked and all busted up on rocks and hidden snags. It takes the best rider of the Flathead to do so improbable a stunt like that.”

“Sure! But the best of riders are sometimes caught sleepingnot always in the sage⁠—but when they should be looking to their cinching. Now own up that you were mad when⁠—”

“Who the dickens wouldn’t feel all broke up, when a hungry feller spends nearly a month’s wages for a feed only to find it all mixed with wormwood and gall? But you’ll savey you have stung yourself when you see that there elegant brooch bein’ worn by my best gal.”

“James LaGrinder,” and there was music in the laughter which set the Westerner’s heart thumping, “I’ll wear that prize brooch and don’t you forget it! Stemteemä donated that canoe, and the brooch goes to her, but since she is not here and you look so lonesome you better go share your banquet with Mary. She is mad about Frenchy and will not eat with that Foot Hills orator from Wyoming. You fellows ought to be ashamed for the low trick you perpetrated. You and Slim have been treated to a dose of your own mixing and it may do your systems good. Now! ‘Go and sin no more!’ ”

Jim laughed with ill affected grace, hunted Mary and shared the contents of his canoe with her. But he failed in all attempts at engaging the girl in conversation. Beyond a monotone answer to his question, she was silent.

Slim divided his high priced “spread” with a cowpuncher from a distant range, who failed in securing a basket.

Silent Bob spent the feast hour with the schoolmarm; while Celluloid broke bread with a winsome widow of the flats.

Rodeo Jack feasted with a pretty miss, whose basket he captured over the bids of one of “them there city mashers.”

Mrs. Carter’s basket was claimed by a bald-headed Chicagoan, and it was many days before she heard the last of her “marble-domed” partner.

On the return trip, Bill saw to it that Rodeo rode with Densmore, and that Jim, with himself in the lead, kept well beyond earshot.