“I ain’t kickin’,” said Joe. “You see I’m still at it, though I’ve cussed it as much as anybody in my time, and swore off and quit, too, more than once. But somehow when spring comes, and the grass gits green, and I know the calves is comin’, somethin’ jest naturally gits under my hide, and I come back to the smell of burnt hair and the creak of saddle-leather.” “Yeah,” said Red, “it’s jist like a dream I had once. I dreamt I died and went up to a place where there was big pearly gates, and I walked up and knocked on the door, and it come wide open. I went in, and there stood Saint Peter. “‘Come in; welcome to our city,’ he says. ‘I’ve been lookin’ for you. Go over to the commissary and git you a harp and a pair of wings.’ “‘All right,’ says I, feelin’ mighty lucky to git in. “As I walked along on the gold sidewalk, I sees a lot of fellers roped and hobbled and hog-tied. “‘What’s the matter?’ says I; ‘Saint Peter, you’re not tryin’ to buffalo me, are you?’ “‘Naw,’ he says, ‘what makes you think so? Your record ain’t nothin’ extra good, but you didn’t git cut back, did you? Here you are. You’re in. Ain’t that enough?’ “‘Ain’t this hell?’ I says. “‘Naw’, says Peter, ‘this ain’t hell a-tall.’ “‘Are you shore this ain’t hell?’ I asks. “‘Naw,’ he says, ‘this ain’t hell. What makes you think it is?’ “‘Why,’ I says, ‘what you got all them fellers roped and tied down for?’ “‘Oh,’ he says, ‘them fellers over there? You see them’s cowboys from the Southwest, and I have to keep ’em tied to keep ’em from goin’ back. I think maybe they’ll git range broke after while so I can turn ’em loose, but it seems like it’s takin’ a long time.’” “However,” said Joe, “the cow business ain’t what it used to be, what with barbed wire, windmills, automobiles and trucks, and the like. They don’t want cowhands any more; what they want is blacksmiths, mechanics, and the like. Still, I reckon it’s a good thing, for they couldn’t git cowhands if they did want ’em. “Now, here’s Red and Hank. Good boys, both of ’em. And I’ve learned ’em a lot about cattle; and they take money at the rodeos, but they ain’t like the old cowhands. I don’t know jest what it is, but they ain’t the same. “And they ain’t but mighty few real cowmen any more. Now, take the big mogul of this outfit. Good feller, always pays wages every month--which is more than some of the old-timers could do. But he ain’t no cowman. Sets up all day at a big desk in town--has a secretary, stenographer, and the like. Why, if Pecos Bill had a-done a thing like that, he would of been so ashamed of his self, he would of jest naturally laid down and died.” “Who is this Pecos Bill I’ve heard you mention?” asked Lanky. “Who is he? Why, ain’t you ever heard of Pecos Bill?” “Not till I came here.” “Well, well, I reckon you’ve heard of Sam Houston, and Sam Bass and General Lee and George Washington and Pat Garrett, ain’t you?” “Oh, yes, I’ve heard a little about them but not anything about Pecos Bill.”