“I’d think that would be a rather dangerous method,” said Lanky. “But what is that whiffle-poofle you mentioned a few minutes ago?” “Oh, you’ll learn when you git a little older,” replied Joe. “You’d better hit the hay now, Lanky. You stand next guard.” Lanky bent down to untie his bed-roll. Then he jumped straight into the air. “My God, I’m bitten!” he yelled. “Bring the butcher knife and the coal-oil,” said Hank, “and heat a brandin’ iron.” “Spect we ought to cut his hand off right now before the pizen spreads,” said Red. “Where’s the axe?” “Now, lad, don’t let ’em buffalo you,” said Joe. “You ain’t bit a-tall.” “But there’s blood on my hand,” said Lanky; “see.” “That’s a shore sign you ain’t bit,” said Joe. “That’s the snake’s blood; see. That’s the very snake Red kilt.” “But he struck me,” said Lanky. “Shore he did. Them devilish critters will strike after they have their heads cut off. Reflex. That’s what they call it. Dirty trick they played on you.” “Well, well,” said Red. “The critter’s head is gone. Still I think we better cut his hand off to make shore. Them things is so pizenous the bite might kill him anyway. I seen a man bit jist like that one time....” “And he never was right in his head again,” said Hank. “Which one of you was it?” asked Lanky. SPEED On Lanky’s second night in the cow camp, there were many allusions to his snake-bite. “Now, Lanky, watch out for rattlesnakes and don’t git bit again,” said Hank. “I hope you’ll recover without an operation,” said Red, “but still I think we ought to of cut your hand off. No tellin’ what might happen. Ought to be on the safe side.” “Don’t let ’em buffalo you, Lanky; don’t let ’em buffalo you,” said Joe. “You ain’t such a greenhorn as lots of chaps I’ve seen. Why, when Red here first come to this outfit, he was so ign’rant he didn’t know split beans from coffee. He thought you had to have a gun to shoot craps; he thought a dogie was somethin’ you built houses out of. He thought a lasso was a girl, and _remuda_ a kind of grass. When the boss got ringy, Red said he was a wrangler. Why, he even thought a cowboy was a bull.” “He was nearly as bad as old _Borrego_ Mason’s sheep-herder,” said Hank. “I reckon Joe’s told you about him, ain’t he, Lanky?--No? “Well, a guy comes down from the East and tries to git a job runnin’ cattle. He ’lowed he’s jest graduated from college--Harvard or Yale, or some of them big schools up there. Said he’d been a big athlete and played in all sorts of games and run in big foot races, and the like. ’Lowed he come to Texas to be a big rancher. He said, though, he’d be willin’ to begin at the bottom and work his way up, and for the time bein’ he’d take a job as a common cowhand. “Well, he went to all the outfits in the whole country, and he couldn’t git anybody to take him on.” “Why not?” asked Lanky.