The cowpuncher took it without the twitching of a muscle in the brown face.
But the cowpuncher was desperate and knew how to handle her.
"A hundred and eighty years old," answered the cowpuncher promptly with a grin.
Then the cowpuncher bethought him of his duty to his employer.
Every cowpuncher, it seemed, must play at least one trick on the tenderfeet.
“Makes me glad, missie,” said the cowpuncher, with alacrity.
"Thar ain't no way I can see to think he didn't," responded the cowpuncher.
"Just a word with you, Mr. cowpuncher," said Herbert in a loud voice.
He was no longer dressed in the outfit of a cowpuncher, but wore a gray street suit and a Panama straw hat.
The cowpuncher's fingers were opening and closing convulsively.
[first form 1870s+, second 1880s+; fr the use of metal-tipped prods to drive cattle into railroad cars]