CHAPTER XI LARRY GOES CALLING RUTH and Mrs. Flanders sat on the porch at Elkhorn Lodge and watched a rider descend a hill trail toward the ranch. It was late in the season. Except a hunting party, only a few stray boarders remained, and these would soon take flight for the cities. But in spite of the almanac the day had been hot. Even after sunset it was pleasant outdoors. The rider announced his coming with song. For a fortnight he had been on the round-up, working sixteen hours a day, and now that it was nearly over he was entitled to sing. The words drifted down to the women on the porch: “Foot in the stirrup and hand on the horn, Best damned cowboy that ever was born.” “It’s Larry Silcott,” announced Mrs. Flanders, brightening. She was a born gossip. When the owner of the Open A N C was with her there was a pair of them present. “Yes,” assented Ruth. She had known for some moments that the approaching rider was Larry. He offered for their entertainment another selection. “Sift along, boys, don’t ride so slow. Haven’t got much time but a long round to go. Quirt him on the shoulders and rake him down the hip, I’ll cut you toppy mounts, boys, now pair off and rip.” After a few moments of silence the wind brought more song to the women on the porch: “Bunch the herd at the old meet, Then beat ’em on the tail; Whip ’em up and down the side And hit the shortest trail.” The young man appeared to catch sight of the women and waved his pinched-in felt hat at them, finishing his range ditty with a cowboy cheer for a rider to the last stanza: “Coma ti yi youpy, youpy ya youpy ya, Coma ti yi youpy, youpy ya.” He cantered up to the ranch, flung himself from the saddle without touching the stirrups, grounded the reins, and came forward to the porch with jingling spurs. Ruth did not deny that he was a most engaging youth. The outdoor bloom on his cheeks, the sparkle in his eyes, the nonchalant pose that had just a touch of boyish swagger, all carried their appeal even with women old enough to be his mother. “Is the round-up finished?” asked Mrs. Flanders. “They’ve got to comb Eagle Creek yet and the Flat Tops.” He fell into the drawl of the old cowman. “But I’m plumb fed up with the dust of the drag driver. Me, I’m through. Enough’s plenty. The boys can finish without Larry Silcott.” “Oh, I’m going home Bullwhacking for to spurn, I ain’t got a nickel, And I don’t give a dern.” “You seem to have quite an attack of doggerel to-night,” suggested Ruth.