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"Poor Manuel," said Bill. "He's got it worse than he's ever had it."

"Well, he ain't the only one," Jim declared. "I don't know if you have noticed or not, but four and five times a year, for a week or two at a time, everybody on the place gets galded."

Leon nodded, and so did John H. But I had been a cowboy all my life, and I still didn't know what they were talking about. Surely they didn't mean gelded! "What are you talking about? What's Manuel got so bad? What does everybody get?"

Jim turned on me, almost snarling in his contemptuous fury. "The way you walk? Don't tell me you ain't got it!"

I bit my tongue. There was a reason for the way I had been walking the last few days, and I wasn't sure the subject was socially acceptable. I was raw from well up my back to well up my front, with splashes of surging agony down the inside of both legs. I didn't want to talk about it! So I changed the subject. "What does "galded" mean?"

"I think it is the humidity," John H. muttered angrily. "It makes you sweat more."

The humidity? My mind went blank. Bill took pity on me. "Galded is being chafed between the legs, and higher up, so bad you can't even stand to lay down on your belly because it changes the position of things on the other side of you."

"The closest thing to it is being scalded and hung out on an ant hill," Jim vowed.

"It is the humidity!" John H. declared fervently. "The sweat, and the salt, and the friction ---- OHHH!"

Manuel crept closer to us, sometimes walking sideways, and sometimes just standing still and groaning. He had it bad!

"You know what I do for it?" John H. demanded.

All of us wheeled to face him. He nodded, and went on to explain. "I can feel it coming on. So I quit on the spot and run home to put on a pair of my wife's bloomers. And if I've caught it too late, I put on two pair. Women's panties aren't made like men's shorts. They are a lot smoother, with less friction when you slide from side to side or twist around to look behind you."

"I wouldn't be caught dead in my wife's panties!" Bill spoke for all of us. His secret cure out, John H. hung his head in shame, and we ignored him.

"Just what DO you do?" Leon asked Bill.

Bill blushed scarlet and stumbled around for his tongue like it was a black brahma bull in a dark boxcar. Then he seemed to sense there was no use trying to pretend HE never got galded, and went on, inchingly. "It's a MAN'S problem. I use a MAN'S solution."

Even Manuel waited with bated breath for Bill to go on.

"I pour whiskey on it," he explained.

We stared at him.

"I slop it on there thick, and fast. I.W. Harper is the best. It gives you about 60 seconds of relief before the fire hits! After that, there's no turning back, not until the cure is over with."

There was a long silence, then Jim said: "I was only man enough to try that one time. I done it with rubbing alcohol."

He shook his head ruefully as he remembered the way it went down. "I was galded bad, worst I ever been. And I got to thinking about how alcohol cools off insect bites, you know? especially if there is a little breeze brushing against your skin? I was hurting so bad I didn't care if I had married her right out of the convent; I peeled my clothes off right in front of Mary and told her to bring me a whole bottle of the stuff.

"She stood there blushing, saying I was crazy if I was going to try that, but I didn't care. I needed some relief. So I throwed that whole bottle on me where it would do the most good.

"Fire? I never had so much fire on me in my life. All I could think about was needing a breeze. I throwed myself back on the bed and screamed at Mary: BLOW IT! BLOW IT!"

It was a few minutes before we got our faces straight enough for the conversation to continue. Then Manuel said: "Bill, I'm taking off a few days. I can't take this."

"You might try deodorant like I use," said Leon. "Spray it on, real light, then spend the night naked with your legs open for the air. The air will cure anything if you leave a wound open long enough."