Nacherally I pulls up my pony
to consider this conduct. While I'm settin' thar tryin' to figger
out Woodruff's system, thar goes that Winchester ag'in, an' a streak
of dust lifts up, say, fifty yards to the left. I then sees Lem
objects to me. I don't like no gent to go carpin' an' criticisin' at
me with a gun; but havin' a Winchester that a-way, this yere
Woodruff can overplay me with only a six-shooter, so I quits him an'
rides contemptuous away. As I withdraws, he hangs his rifle on his
saddle ag'in, picks up his runnin' iron all' goes back content an'
all serene to his maverick.'" "What is a maverick?" I asked,
interrupting my friend in the flow of his narration. "Why, I
s'posed," he remarked, a bit testily at being halted, "as how even
shorthorns an' tenderfeet knows what mavericks is. Mavericks, son,
is calves which gets sep'rated from the old cows, their mothers, an'
ain't been branded none yet. They're bets which the round-ups
overlooks, an' don't get marked. Of course, when they drifts from
their mothers, each calf for himse'f, an' no brands nor y'ear marks,
no one can tell whose calves they be. They ain't branded, au' the
old cows ain't thar to identify au' endorse 'em, an' thar you stands
in ignorance.
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