“I went out and sat on the ground in the shade of thestore and leaned against a prickly pear. I sifted sand intomy boots with unthinking hands while I soliloquised aquantity about this bird with the Jackson plumage to hisname.
“I never had believed in harming sheep men. I see one，one day， reading a Latin grammar on hossback， and I nevertouched him！ They never irritated me like they do mostcowmen. You wouldn’t go to work now， and impair anddisfigure snoozers， would you， that eat on tables and wearlittle shoes and speak to you on subjects？ I had alwayslet ’em pass， just as you would a jack-rabbit； with a politeword and a guess about the weather， but no stopping toswap canteens. I never thought it was worth while to behostile with a snoozer. And because I’d been lenient， andlet ’em live， here was one going around riding with MissWillella Learight！
“An hour by sun they come loping back， and stopped atUncle Emsley’s gate. The sheep person helped her off； andthey stood throwing each other sentences all sprightfuland sagacious for a while. And then this feathered Jacksonflies up in his saddle and raises his little stewpot of a hat， andtrots off in the direction of his mutton ranch. By this timeI had turned the sand out of my boots and unpinned myselffrom the prickly pear； and by the time he gets half a mile outof Pimienta， I singlefoots up beside him on my bronc.
“I said that snoozer was pink-eyed， but he wasn’t. Hisseeing arrangement was grey enough， but his eye-lasheswas pink and his hair was sandy， and that gave you theidea. Sheep man？—he wasn’t more than a lamb man，anyhow—a little thing with his neck involved in a yellowsilk handkerchief， and shoes tied up in bowknots.
“‘Afternoon！’ says I to him. ‘You now ride with aequestrian who is commonly called Dead-Moral-CertaintyJudson， on account of the way I shoot. When I want astranger to know me I always introduce myself before thedraw， for I never did like to shake hands with ghosts.’
“‘Ah，’ says he， just like that— ‘Ah， I’m glad to know you，Mr. Judson. I’m Jackson Bird， from over at Mired MuleRanch.’
“Just then one of my eyes saw a roadrunner skippingdown the hill with a young tarantula in his bill， and theother eye noticed a rabbit-hawk sitting on a dead limb ina water-elm. I popped over one after the other with myforty-five， just to show him. ‘Two out of three，’ says I. ‘Birdsjust naturally seem to draw my fire wherever I go.’
“‘Nice shooting，’ says the sheep man， without a flutter.
‘But don’t you sometimes ever miss the third shot？ Elegantfine rain that was last week for the young grass， Mr.
Judson？’ says he.
“‘Willie，’ says I， riding over close to his palfrey， ‘yourinfatuated parents may have denounced you by the nameof Jackson， but you sure moulted into a twittering Willie—let us slough off this here analysis of rain and the elements，and get down to talk that is outside the vocabulary ofparrots. That is a bad habit you have got of riding withyoung ladies over at Pimienta. I’ve known birds，’ says I， ‘to beserved on toast for less than that. Miss Willella，’ says I， ‘don’tever want any nest made out of sheep’s wool by a tomtit ofthe Jacksonian branch of ornithology. Now， are you goingto quit， or do you wish for to gallop up against this Dead-Moral-Certainty attachment to my name， which is goodfor two hyphens and at least one set of funeral obsequies？’
“Jackson Bird flushed up some， and then he laughed.
“‘Why， Mr. Judson，’ says he， ‘you’ve got the wrong idea.
I’ve called on Miss Learight a few times； but not for thepurpose you imagine. My object is purely a gastronomicalone.’
“I reached for my gun.
“‘Any coyote，’ says I， ‘that would boast of dishonourable—’
“‘Wait a minute，’ says this Bird， ‘till I explain. Whatwould I do with a wife？ If you ever saw that ranch of mine！
I do my own cooking and mending. Eating—that’s all thepleasure I get out of sheep raising. Mr. Judson， did youever taste the pancakes that Miss Learight makes？’
“‘Me？ No，’ I told him. ‘I never was advised that she wasup to any culinary manoeuvres.’
“‘They’re golden sunshine，’ says he， ‘honey-browned bythe ambrosial fires of Epicurus. I’d give two years of mylife to get the recipe for making them pancakes. That’swhat I went to see Miss Learight for，’ says Jackson Bird，‘but I haven’t been able to get it from her. It’s an oldrecipe that’s been in the family for seventy-five years. Theyhand it down from one generation to another， but theydon’t give it away to outsiders. If I could get that recipe，so I could make them pancakes for myself on my ranch， I’dbe a happy man，’ says Bird.
“‘Are you sure，’ I says to him， ‘that it ain’t the hand thatmixes the pancakes that you’re after？’
“‘Sure，’ says Jackson. ‘Miss Learight is a mighty nicegirl， but I can assure you my intentions go no furtherthan the gastro—’ but he seen my hand going down to myholster and he changed his similitude— ‘than the desire toprocure a copy of the pancake recipe，’ he finishes.
“‘You ain’t such a bad little man，’ says I， trying to be fair. ‘Iwas thinking some of making orphans of your sheep， butI’ll let you fly away this time. But you stick to pancakes，’
says I， ‘as close as the middle one of a stack； and don’t goand mistake sentiments for syrup， or there’ll be singing atyour ranch， and you won’t hear it.’
“‘To convince you that I am sincere，’ says the sheep man，‘I’ll ask you to help me. Miss Learight and you being closerfriends， maybe she would do for you what she wouldn’t forme. If you will get me a copy of that pancake recipe， I giveyou my word that I’ll never call upon her again.’
“‘That’s fair，’ I says， and I shook hands with JacksonBird. ‘I’ll get it for you if I can， and glad to oblige.’ Andhe turned off down the big pear flat on the Piedra， in thedirection of Mired Mule； and I steered northwest for oldBill Toomey’s ranch.
