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Authors: Julie Campbell
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and Brian are going to give me, I don’t suppose I’ll ever get a chance to do any riding.”
Mart chose that moment to deposit his tray on the girls’ table. There were two platters on it, and they were heaped high with delicious-smelling food.
“Eat while the eating’s good,” he advised them. “Wait until you see what awaits you gals in the kitchen. What this establishment needs is an electric dishwashing machine. A giant model—a twin giant model, to be exact.”
He placed one freckled hand on the table, leaned on it, and added conversationally, “How I pity you squaws! We males et like hosses ’fore the crowd arrived, and now that our chores are done, we’re going for a moonlight ride across the desert.”
“Have fun,” Trixie said sarcastically. “I hope every one of your hosses steps into a gopher hole and throws you. Would serve you right.”
“Oh, no, Trix,” Honey objected, her eyes twinkling. “The hosses might git hurt thataway. What I hope is that the foreman gives every one of the boys a real bucking bronco so that they’ll get ditched, thrown, or whatever the correct word is, right off the bat.”
Mart straightened. “Is them yer sentiments, ma'am? ”
“Them is,” Honey replied.
“And don’t bring yer broken bones back here for us-all to fix,” Trixie added, trying hard not to laugh. “I hope you all get ponies like the one in that old cowboy song,” and she chanted,
“One little pony and his name was Patch,
Never saw his equal, never saw his match—
Buckin’ all mornin, an’ pile-drivin’, too,
Thinks a cowpoke’s fav’rite colors is black an’ blue!”
Then, to Trixie’s amazement, she realized that someone standing behind her was singing softly with her, to die accompaniment of a guitar. She whirled around to find that a handsome young cowboy was standing there. He winked one merry blue eye at her and went right into the last several lines of Trixie’s favorite chorus:
“Buckin’ allmomin, an’pile-drivin’, too,
Thinks a cowpoke’s fav’rite colors is black an blue.
Ride ’im down the river, ride ’im up the hill,
But you can’t ride ’im home an’ you never will!”
As he finished the last line, the cowboy slid into the vacant seat next to Trixie.
“Howdy,” he said. “It’s a real pleasure to meet folks who know the same songs I do. Now that the chuck wagon seems to be emptyin' of dudes, shall we go on singin’?”
Trixie was so thrilled to find herself seated beside an honest-to-goodness cowboy that, for a moment, she was speechless. The others, too, were apparently stunned, because nobody said a word for quite a while.
The cowboy was in full regalia, including beautifully decorated chaps and cuffs, boots, spurs, and a bright red-and-green bandanna. With the poise that comes from sincere friendliness and hospitality, he introduced himself.
“I know you-all are the Bob-Whites, or most of ’em, anyways. I’m Lionel Stetson; no relation to the famous hatter, but, because of which, I go by the name of Ten Gallon—Tenny for short.”
Honey, as usual, was the first to rise to the occasion. “Were awfully glad to meet you, Tenny,” she said with her lovely smile. “I’m Honey Wheeler. This is Di Lynch, Mr. Wilson’s niece, and you’re sitting between Trixie and Mart Belden.”
Tenny bowed to each one in turn. “I sure am pleased to make yer acquaintance. To tell the truth, I snuck in through the side door for the very purpose. Heard tell that you boys and girls are a-goin’ for a moonlight ride this evenin’, so thought it might be a good idea to sort of wise you up to things.” Trixie found her voice then. “We girls aren’t going, Tenny,” she said bitterly. “We’ve got to wash a million dishes.”
Tenny chuckled. “Wal, now, I think it’s all fer the best. Howie—he’s the boss foreman—he ain’t a-goin to like letting the hosses out at this time o’ night, anyhow. Right crotchety, Howie is. I s’pect he has
Mart chose that moment to deposit his tray on the girls’ table. There were two platters on it, and they were heaped high with delicious-smelling food.
“Eat while the eating’s good,” he advised them. “Wait until you see what awaits you gals in the kitchen. What this establishment needs is an electric dishwashing machine. A giant model—a twin giant model, to be exact.”
He placed one freckled hand on the table, leaned on it, and added conversationally, “How I pity you squaws! We males et like hosses ’fore the crowd arrived, and now that our chores are done, we’re going for a moonlight ride across the desert.”
“Have fun,” Trixie said sarcastically. “I hope every one of your hosses steps into a gopher hole and throws you. Would serve you right.”
“Oh, no, Trix,” Honey objected, her eyes twinkling. “The hosses might git hurt thataway. What I hope is that the foreman gives every one of the boys a real bucking bronco so that they’ll get ditched, thrown, or whatever the correct word is, right off the bat.”
Mart straightened. “Is them yer sentiments, ma'am? ”
“Them is,” Honey replied.
“And don’t bring yer broken bones back here for us-all to fix,” Trixie added, trying hard not to laugh. “I hope you all get ponies like the one in that old cowboy song,” and she chanted,
“One little pony and his name was Patch,
Never saw his equal, never saw his match—
Buckin’ all mornin, an’ pile-drivin’, too,
Thinks a cowpoke’s fav’rite colors is black an’ blue!”
Then, to Trixie’s amazement, she realized that someone standing behind her was singing softly with her, to die accompaniment of a guitar. She whirled around to find that a handsome young cowboy was standing there. He winked one merry blue eye at her and went right into the last several lines of Trixie’s favorite chorus:
“Buckin’ allmomin, an’pile-drivin’, too,
Thinks a cowpoke’s fav’rite colors is black an blue.
Ride ’im down the river, ride ’im up the hill,
But you can’t ride ’im home an’ you never will!”
As he finished the last line, the cowboy slid into the vacant seat next to Trixie.
“Howdy,” he said. “It’s a real pleasure to meet folks who know the same songs I do. Now that the chuck wagon seems to be emptyin' of dudes, shall we go on singin’?”
Trixie was so thrilled to find herself seated beside an honest-to-goodness cowboy that, for a moment, she was speechless. The others, too, were apparently stunned, because nobody said a word for quite a while.
The cowboy was in full regalia, including beautifully decorated chaps and cuffs, boots, spurs, and a bright red-and-green bandanna. With the poise that comes from sincere friendliness and hospitality, he introduced himself.
“I know you-all are the Bob-Whites, or most of ’em, anyways. I’m Lionel Stetson; no relation to the famous hatter, but, because of which, I go by the name of Ten Gallon—Tenny for short.”
Honey, as usual, was the first to rise to the occasion. “Were awfully glad to meet you, Tenny,” she said with her lovely smile. “I’m Honey Wheeler. This is Di Lynch, Mr. Wilson’s niece, and you’re sitting between Trixie and Mart Belden.”
Tenny bowed to each one in turn. “I sure am pleased to make yer acquaintance. To tell the truth, I snuck in through the side door for the very purpose. Heard tell that you boys and girls are a-goin’ for a moonlight ride this evenin’, so thought it might be a good idea to sort of wise you up to things.” Trixie found her voice then. “We girls aren’t going, Tenny,” she said bitterly. “We’ve got to wash a million dishes.”
Tenny chuckled. “Wal, now, I think it’s all fer the best. Howie—he’s the boss foreman—he ain’t a-goin to like letting the hosses out at this time o’ night, anyhow. Right crotchety, Howie is. I s’pect he has
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