As the first to enter reached the farther end a stout bar dropped into
place, just missing the animal's nose; and as the last cow discovered
that it could go no farther and made up its mind to back out, it was
stopped by another bar, which fell behind it. The iron heaters tossed
a hot iron each to Red and Johnny and the eight were marked in short
order, making about two hundred and fifty they had branded in three
hours. This number compared very favorably with that of the second
chute where Lanky Smith and Frenchy McAlister waved cold irons and
sarcastically asked their iron men if the sun was supposed to provide
the heat; whereat the down-trodden heaters provided heat with great
generosity in their caustic retorts.
"Oh, Susanna, don't you cry for me," sang Billy Williams, one of the
feeders. "But why in Jericho don't you fellers get a move on you? You
ain't no good on the platform--you ought to be mixing biscuits for
Cookie. Frenchy and Lanky are the boys to turn 'em out," he offered,
gratis.
Red's weary air bespoke a vast and settled contempt for such inanities
and his iron descended against the side of the victim below him--he
would not deign to reply. Not so with Johnny, who could not refrain from
hot retort.
"Don't be a fool _all_ the time," snapped Johnny. "Mind yore own
business, you shorthorn.
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