The boss was a hard man, and he was not at great pains to conceal his hardness. He had waited for a week to fill out his judgment upon the new hand, and now his mind was full.
After supper, he went into the bunk house and stood in the door.
“Fuller!” he called.
Tom Fuller leaned his head out of his bunk—he had turned in early—and lowered the magazine which he had been reading, while the vision of Indians, galloping riders, and rescued heroines slowly faded from his mind and was replaced by the solid image of Pete Stringham in the doorway.
“Here!” said Fuller.
The boss took a few long strides into the room.
“Fuller, you’re a cowpuncher?”
“I’m a cowboy, I guess,” said Fuller.
“Who made you a cowpuncher?” asked the boss.
There was silence.
“It’s a sure thing that nature didn’t intend you that way,” said the boss. “Answer me one thing. Can you handle a rope?”
