It was a huge parody of the afternoon performance, staged for Ma
Bailey's special benefit. Suddenly the cowboy who represented Blue
Smoke made an astounding buck and his rider bit the dust.

Ma Bailey held the lamp aloft and gazed sternly at the two sweating,
puffing cowboys. "Where's Bailey?" she queried sharply.

One of the men stepped forward and doffing his hat assumed an attitude
of profound gravity. "Blue there, he done pitched your husband, mam,
and broke his leg. Your husband done loped off on three laigs, to git
the doctor to fix it."

"Let me catch sight of him and I'll fix it!" she snorted. "Jim, if
you're hidin' in that bunk-house you come out here--and behave
yourself. Lord knows you are old enough to know better."

"That's right, mam. Jim is sure old enough to know better 'n to behave
hisself. You feed us so plumb good, mam, that we jest can't set still
nohow. I reckon it was the pie that done it. Reckon them dried apples
kind of turned to cider."

Mrs. Bailey swung around with all the dignity of a liner leaving
harbor, and headed for the house.

"Is she gone?" came in a hoarse whisper.

"You come near this house to-night and you'll find out!" Mrs. Bailey
advised from the doorway.

"It's the hay for yours, Jim," comforted a cowboy.