With a shake of the head, and a setting of the lips, he tramped on,
every step giving him pain; and at last he neared the town.

It was a small place, with a few scattered 'dobe houses, one of which
bore the sign indicating an inn. Outside the door, with their cigarettes
between their lips, their whips lying beside them, sat and lounged a
group of cowboys. Derrick had made the acquaintance of many of their
kind since the night on which he had checkmated the specimens in the
circus, and he had got on very well with them; for your cowboy is an
acute person, and knows a "man" when he sees him. As Derrick limped up
they stopped talking, and eyed him with narrowed lids.

Derrick saluted them in Spanish fashion, for he had picked up a few
phrases, and one of the men made way for him on the rude bench, greeted
him with a nod, and slid a mug and a bottle of wine towards him. Derrick
drank--it was like nectar in his parched mouth--and the cowboy, with a
grunt of approval, tendered him a cigarette and inquired curtly, but not
unkindly, where he was going. Derrick replied, in broken Spanish, that
he was looking for work.

The cowboy said, "Inglés," and nodded to one of his companions, who,
with a sudden flush, said-"Thought you were a fellow-countryman. On the tramp, mate, eh? Well,
I've done that myself, and, between you and me, there's many a better
job." He filled up Derrick's mug and eyed him with friendly questioning.
"What's your line?"