“Enchiladas are sure fine eating,” said Andy. “I took to 'em like a she-bear to honey, down in New Mexico this winter. Your Native Son is solid there, all right.” “Aw, gwan! He ain't solid nowhere but in the head. Maybe you'll love him to death when yuh see him--chances is you will, if you've took to eatin' dago grub.” Andy patted Happy Jack reassuringly on the shoulder. “Don't get excited,” he soothed. “I'll put it all over the gentleman, just to show my heart's in the right place. Just this once, though; I've reformed. And I've got to have time to size him up. Where do you keep him when he ain't in the show window?” He swung into step with Pink. “I'll tell you the truth,” he confided engagingly. “Any man that'll wear chaps like he's got--even leaving out the extra finish you fellows have given 'em--had ought to be taught a lesson he'll remember. He sure must be a tough proposition, if the whole bunch of yuh have had to give him up. By gracious--” “We haven't tried,” Pink defended. “It kinda looked to us as if he was aiming to make us guy him; so we didn't. We've left him strictly alone. To-day”--he glanced over his shoulder to where the becurled chaps swung comically from the willow branch--“to-day's the first time anybody's made a move. Unless,” he added, as an afterthought, “you count yesterday in the 'doby patch--and even then we didn't tell him to ride into it; we just let him do it.” “And kinda herded him over towards it,” Cal amended slyly. “Can he ride?” asked Andy, going straight to the main point, in the mind of a cowpuncher. “W-e-ell-he hasn't been piled, so far. But then,” Pink qualified hastily, “he hasn't topped anything worse than Crow-hop. He ain't hard to ride. Happy Jack could--” “Aw, I'm gittin' good and sick of' hearin' that there tune,” Happy growled indignantly. “Why don't you point out Slim as the limit, once in a while?” “Come on down to the stable, and let's talk it over,” Andy suggested, and led the way. “What's his style, anyway? Mouthy, or what?” With four willing tongues to enlighten him, it would be strange, indeed, if one so acute as Andy Green failed at last to have a very fair mental picture of Miguel. He gazed thoughtfully at his boots, laughed suddenly, and slapped Irish quite painfully upon the back. “Come on up and introduce me, boys,” he said. “We'll make this Native Son so hungry for home--you watch me put it on the gentleman. Only it does seem a shame to do it.” “No, it ain't. If you'd been around him for two weeks, you'd want to kill him just to make him take notice,” Irish assured him. “What gets me,” Andy mused, “is why you fellows come crying to me for help. I should think the bunch of you ought to be able to handle one lone Native Son.” “Aw, you're the biggest liar and faker in the bunch, is why,” Happy Jack blurted. “Oh, I see.” Andy hummed a little tune and pushed his hands deep into his pockets, and at the corners of his lips there flickered a smile.