THE PIMIENTA PANCAKESWhile we were rounding up a bunch of the Triangle-O cattle in
the Frio bottoms a projecting branch of a dead mesquite caught my
wooden stirrup and gave my ankle a wrench that laid me up in camp
for a week.
On the third day of my compulsory idleness I crawled out near
the grub wagon, and reclined helpless under the conversational fire
of Judson Odom, the camp cook. Jud was a monologist by nature, whom
Destiny, with customary blundering, had set in a profession wherein
he was bereaved, for the greater portion of his time, of an
audience.
Therefore, I was manna in the desert of Jud's obmutescence.
Betimes I was stirred by invalid longings for something to eat
that did not come under the caption of "grub." I had visions of the
maternal pantry "deep as first lo
