While we were rounding up a bunch of the Triangle-Ocattle in the Frio bottoms a projecting branch of a deadmesquite caught my wooden stirrup and gave my ankle awrench that laid me up in camp for a week.
On the third day of my compulsory idleness I crawledout near the grub wagon， and reclined helpless underthe conversational fire of Judson Odom， the camp cook.
Jud was a monologist by nature， whom Destiny， withcustomary blundering， had set in a profession wherein hewas bereaved， for the greater portion of his time， of anaudience.
Therefore， I was manna in the desert of Jud’s obmutescence.
Betimes I was stirred by invalid longings for somethingto eat that did not come under the caption of “grub.” Ihad visions of the maternal pantry “deep as first love， andwild with all regret，” and then I asked：
“Jud， can you make pancakes？”
Jud laid down his six-shooter， with which he waspreparing to pound an antelope steak， and stood over me inwhat I felt to be a menacing attitude. He further endorsedmy impression that his pose was resentful by fixing uponme with his light blue eyes a look of cold suspicion.
“Say， you，” he said， with candid， though not excessive，choler， “did you mean that straight， or was you trying tothrow the gaff into me？ Some of the boys been telling youabout me and that pancake racket？”
“No， Jud，” I said， sincerely， “I meant it. It seems to meI’d swap my pony and saddle for a stack of buttered brownpancakes with some first crop， open kettle， New Orleanssweetening. Was there a story about pancakes？”
Jud was mollified at once when he saw that I had notbeen dealing in allusions. He brought some mysteriousbags and tin boxes from the grub wagon and set them inthe shade of the hackberry where I lay reclined. I watchedhim as he began to arrange them leisurely and untie theirmany strings.
“No， not a story，” said Jud， as he worked， “but just thelogical disclosures in the case of me and that pink-eyedsnoozer from Mired Mule Canada and Miss WillellaLearight. I don’t mind telling you.
“I was punching then for old Bill Toomey， on the SanMiguel. One day I gets all ensnared up in aspirations forto eat some canned grub that hasn’t ever mooed or baaedor grunted or been in peck measures. So， I gets on mybronc and pushes the wind for Uncle Emsley Telfair’s storeat the Pimienta Crossing on the Nueces.
“About three in the afternoon I throwed my bridle reinover a mesquite limb and walked the last twenty yards intoUncle Emsley’s store. I got up on the counter and told UncleEmsley that the signs pointed to the devastation of the fruitcrop of the world. In a minute I had a bag of crackers and along-handled spoon， with an open can each of apricots andpineapples and cherries and greengages beside of me withUncle Emsley busy chopping away with the hatchet at theyellow clings. I was feeling like Adam before the applestampede， and was digging my spurs into the side of thecounter and working with my twenty-four-inch spoonwhen I happened to look out of the window into the yardof Uncle Emsley’s house， which was next to the store.
“There was a girl standing there—an imported girl withfixings on—philandering with a croquet maul and amusingherself by watching my style of encouraging the fruitcanning industry.
“I slid off the counter and delivered up my shovel toUncle Emsley.
“‘That’s my niece，’ says he； ‘Miss Willella Learight， downfrom Palestine on a visit. Do you want that I should makeyou acquainted？’
“‘The Holy Land，’ I says to myself， my thoughts millingsome as I tried to run ’em into the corral. ‘Why not？
There was sure angels in Pales—Why， yes， Uncle Emsley，’ Isays out loud， ‘I’d be awful edified to meet Miss Learight.’
“So Uncle Emsley took me out in the yard and gave useach other’s entitlements.
“I never was shy about women. I never could understandwhy some men who can break a mustang before breakfastand shave in the dark， get all left-handed and full ofperspiration and excuses when they see a bold of calicodraped around what belongs to it. Inside of eight minutesme and Miss Willella was aggravating the croquet ballsaround as amiable as second cousins. She gave me a digabout the quantity of canned fruit I had eaten， and Igot back at her， flat-footed， about how a certain ladynamed Eve started the fruit trouble in the first free-grasspasture— ‘Over in Palestine， wasn’t it？’ says I， as easy andpat as roping a one-year-old.
“That was how I acquired cordiality for the proximitiesof Miss Willella Learight； and the disposition grew largeras time passed. She was stopping at Pimienta Crossingfor her health， which was very good， and for the climate，which was forty per cent. hotter than Palestine. I rodeover to see her once every week for a while； and then Ifigured it out that if I doubled the number of trips I wouldsee her twice as often.
“One week I slipped in a third trip； and that’s where thepancakes and the pink-eyed snoozer busted into the game.
“That evening， while I set on the counter with a peachand two damsons in my mouth， I asked Uncle Emsley howMiss Willella was.
“‘Why，’ says Uncle Emsley， ‘she’s gone riding with JacksonBird， the sheep man from over at Mired Mule Canada.’
“I swallowed the peach seed and the two damson seeds.
I guess somebody held the counter by the bridle while Igot off； and then I walked out straight ahead till I buttedagainst the mesquite where my roan was tied.
“‘She’s gone riding，’ I whisper in my bronc’s ear， ‘withBirdstone Jack， the hired mule from Sheep Man’s Canada.
Did you get that， old Leather-and-Gallops？’
“That bronc of mine wept， in his way. He’d been raised acow pony and he didn’t care for snoozers.
“I went back and said to Uncle Emsley： ‘Did you say asheep man？’
“‘I said a sheep man，’ says Uncle Emsley again. ‘You musthave heard tell of Jackson Bird. He’s got eight sectionsof grazing and four thousand head of the finest Merinossouth of the Arctic Circle.’