Like all New Yorkers, no matter what their station, Lawrence cherished a provincial contempt for such people as are not of Manhattan. While he was woefully timid in the presence of firearms, and the flash of steel reduced him to a panic, he was a past master at the "manly art," and carried a punch in which he reposed unlimited faith. The deference with which the cowboys treated him, their simple, child-like faith in his every utterance, combined to exaggerate his contempt for them. Even Carara, disappointed in love, treated him with a smiling, backward sort of courtesy which the trainer misconstructed as timidity. "I thought cowboys was tough guys," continued he, "but it's a mistake. That little Willie, for instance, is a lamb. He packs that Mauser for protection. He's afraid some farmer will walk up and poke his eye out with a corn-cob. One copper with a night- stick could stampede the whole outfit. But they're all right, at that," he acknowledged, magnanimously. "They're a nice bunch of fellers when you know how to take 'em." "The flies are awful to-day," Speed complained. "They bite my legs." "I'll bring out a bath robe to-morrow, and we'll hide it in the bushes. I wish there was some place to keep this beer cool." Glass shifted some bottles to a point where the sunlight did not strike them. "I'm getting tired of training, Larry," acknowledged the younger man, with a yawn. "It takes so much time." Glass shook his head in sympathy. "Seems like we'd ought to hear from Covington," said he. "He's on his way, no doubt. Isn't it time to go back to the ranch?" Glass consulted his watch. "No, we ain't done but three miles. Here goes for the rubber." It was Berkeley Fresno who retreated cautiously from the shelter of a thicket a hundred yards up the arroyo and started briskly homeward, congratulating himself upon the impulse that had decided him to follow the training partners upon their daily routine. He made directly for the corral. "Which I don't consider there's no consideration comin' to him whatever," said Willie that evening. "He ain't acted on the level." "Now, see here," objected Stover, "he may be just what he claims he is. Simply because he don't go skally-hootin' around in the hot sun ain't no sign he _can't_ run." "What about them empty beer bottles?" demanded Willie. "No feller can train on that stuff. I went out there myself and seen 'em. There was a dozen." "Mebbe Glass drank it. What I claim is this: we ain't got no proof. Fresno is stuck on Miss Blake, and he's a knocker." "Then let's _git_ some proof, and dam' quick." "_Si, Senores_," agreed Carara, who had been an interested listener. "I agree with you, but we got to be careful--" Willie grunted with disgust. "--we can't go at it like we was killin' snakes. Mr. Speed is a guest here." Again the little gun man expressed his opinion, this time in violet-tinted profanity, and the other cowboys joined in.