"Thar comes a day when Old Man Enright heads into the Red Light, where we-all is discussin' of eepisodes, an' he packs a letter in his hand.

"'Yere's a matter,' he says, 'of public concern, an' I asks for a full expression of the camp for answer. Yere's a sharp by the name of Colonel William Greene Sterett, who writes me as how he's sufferin' to let go all holts in the States an' start a paper in Wolfville. It shall be, he says, a progressif an' enlightened journal, devoted to the moral, mental an' material upheaval of this yere commoonity, an' he aims to learn our views. Do I hear any remarks on this litteratoor's prop'sition?' "Tell him to come a- runnin', Enright," says Jack Moore; "an' draw it strong. If thar's one want which is slowly but shorely crowdin' Wolfville to the wall, it's a dearth of literatoor; yere's our chance, an' we plays it quick an high."

"I ain't so gala confident of all this," says Dan Boggs. "I'm sort o' allowin' this hamlet's too feeble yet for a paper. Startin' a paper in a small camp this a-way is like givin' a six-shooter to a boy; most likely he shoots himse'f, or mebby busts the neighbor, tharwith."

"Oh, I don't know,' says Doc Peets, who, I wants to say, is as sudden a white man, mental, as I ever sees; "my notion is to bring him along. The mere idee of a paper'll do a heap for the town."

"I'm entertainin' sentiments sim'lar,' says Enright; "an' I guess I'll write this Colonel Sterett that we'll go him once if we lose. I'm assisted to this concloosion by hearin', the last time I'm in Tucson, that Red Dog, which is our rival, is out to start a paper, in which event it behooves Wolfville to split even with 'em at the least."

"That's whatever!" says Moore. "If we allows Red Dog to put it onto us that a-way we might jest as well dissolve Wolfville as a camp, an' reepair to the woods in a body."

"Enright sends Colonel Sterett word, an' in four weeks he comes packin in his layout an' opens up his game. Colonel Sterett, personal, is a broad, thick, fine-seemin' gent, with a smooth, high for'ead, grey eyes, an' a long, honest face like a hoss. The Colonel has a far-off look in his eyes, like he's dreamin' of things sublime, which Doc Peets says is the common look of lit'rary gents that a-way. Texas Thompson, however, allows he witnesses the same distant expression in the eyes of a foogitive from jestice.

"Colonel Sterett makes a good impression. He evolves his journal an' names it the Coyote, a name applauded by us all. I'll read you a few of them earliest items; which I'm able to give these yere notices exact, as I preserves a file of the Coyote complete. I shorely wouldn't be without it; none whatever!

"Miss Faro Nell, Wolfville's beautiful and accomplished society belle, condescended to grace the post of lookout last night for the game presided over by our eminent townsman, Mr. Cherokee Hall.

"Ain't it sweet?" says Faro Nell, when she reads it. "I thinks it's jest lovely. The drinks is on me, barkeep." Then we goes on:

"Mr. Samuel Johnson Enright, a namesake of the great lexicographer, and the Lycurgus of Wolfville, paid a visit to Tucson last week.

"Any person possessing leisure and a stack of chips can adventure the latter under conditions absolutely equitable with that distinguished courtier of fortune, Mr. Cherokee Hall.

"If Mr. John Moore, our efficient Marshal, will refrain from pinning his targets for pistol practice to the exterior of our building, we will bow our gratitude when next we meet. The bullets go right through.

"We were distressed last week to note that Mr. James Hamilton, the gentlemanly and urbane proprietor of Wolfville's temple of terpsichoir (see ad, in another column) had changed whiskeys on us, and was dispensing what seemed to our throat a tincture of the common carpet tack of commerce. It is our hope that Mr. H., on seeing this, will at once restore the statu quo at his justly popular resort.

"A reckless Mexican was parading the street the other night carrying in his hand a monkey wrench. It was dark, and Mr. Daniel Boggs, a leading citizen of Wolfville, who met him, mistaking the wrench for a pistol which the Mexican was carrying for some vile purpose, very properly shot him. Mexicans are far too careless this way.

"The O. K. Restauraw is one of the few superior hostelries of the Territory. Mrs. Rucker, its charming proprietress, is a cook who might outrival even that celebrated chef, now dead, M. Soyer. Her pies are poems, her bread an epic, and her beans a dream, Mrs. Rucker has cooked her way to every heart, and her famed establishment is justly regarded as the bright particular gem in Wolfville's municipal crown.

"It is not needed for us to remind our readers that Wolfville possesses in the person of that celebrated practitioner of medicine, Mr. Cadwallader Peets, M. D., a scientist whose fame is world-wide and whose renown has reached to furthest lands. Doctor Ports has beautifully mounted the skull of that horse-stealing ignobility, Bear Creel. Stanton, who recently suffered the punishment due his many crimes at the hands of our local vigilance committee, a tribunal which under the discerning leadership of President Enright, never fails in the administration of justice. Doctor Peets will be glad to exhibit this memento mori to all who care to call. Doctor Peets, who is eminent as a phrenologist, avers that said skull is remarkable for its thickness, and that its conformation points to the possession by Bear Creek, while he wore it, of the most powerful natural inclinations to crime. From these discoveries of Doctor Peets, the committee which suspended this felon to the windmill is to be congratulated on acting just in time. It seems plain from the contour of this skull that it would not have been long, had not the committee intervened, before Bear Creek would have added murder to horse larceny, and to-day the town might be mourning the death of a valued citizen instead of felicitating itself over the taking-off of a villain whose very bumps indict and convict him with every fair and enlightened intelligence that is brought to their contemplation.

"Our respected friend and subscriber, Mr. David Tutt, and his beautiful and accomplished lady, Mrs. David Tutt, nee Tucson Jennie, have returned from their stay in Silver City. Last night in honor of their coming, and to see their friends, this amiable and popular pair gave an At Home. There was every form of refreshment, and joy and merriment was unconfined. Miss Faro Dell was admittedly the belle of this festive occasion, and Diana would have envied her as, radiant and happy, she led the grand march leaning on the arm of Mr. Cherokee Hall. By request of Mr. Daniel Boggs, the 'Lariat Polka' was added to the programme of dances, as was also the 'Pocatello Reel' at the instance of Mr. Texas Thompson. As the ball progressed, and at the particular desire of those present, Mr. Boggs and Mr. Thompson entertained the company with that difficult and intricate dance known as the 'Mountain Lion Mazourka,' accompanying their efforts with spirited vocalisms meant to imitate the defiant screams of a panther on its native hills. These cries, as well as the dance itself, were highly realistic, and Messrs. B. and T. were made the recipients of many compliments. Mr. and Mrs. Tutt are to be congratulated on the success of the function; to fully describe its many excellent features would exhaust encomium.

"Which we reads the foregoin' with onmixed pleasure, an' thar ain't a gent but who's plumb convinced that a newspaper, that a-way, is the bulwark of civilizations an' corner-stone of American institootions, which it's allowed to be by the voices of them ages.

"'This yere imprint, the Coyote,' says Jack Moore, 'is a howlin' triumph, an' any gent disposed can go an' make a swell bet on it with every certainty of a-killin'. Also, I remembers yereafter about them bullets.'

"Meanwhile, like I states prior, Red Dog has its editor, who whirls loose a paper which he calls the Stingin' Lizard. The Red Dog sheet ain't a marker to Colonel Sterett's Coyote, an' it's the yooniversal idee in Wolfville, after ca'mly comparin' the two papers, that Colonel Sterett as a editor can simply back that Red Dog person plumb off the ground.

"It ain't no time before Colonel Sterett an' the Red Dog editor takes to cirklin' for trouble, an' the frightful names they applies to each other in their respectif journals, an' the accoosations an' them epithets they hurls, would shore curdle the blood of a grizzly b'ar.

"An' as if to complicate the sityooation for that onhappy sport who's gettin' out the Red Dog Stingin' Lizard, he begins to have trouble local. Thar's a chuck-shop at Red Dog—it's a plumb low j'int; I never knows it to have any grub better than beans, salt pig an' airtights,—which is called the Abe Lincoln House, an' is kept by a party named Pete Bland. Which this yere Bland also owns a goat, the same bein' a gift of a Mexican who's got in the hole to Bland an' squar's accounts that a-way.

"This goat is jest a simple-minded, every-day, common kind of a goat; but he's mighty thorough in his way, allers on the hustle, an' if he ever overlooks a play, no one don't know it. One day, when the Red Dog editor is printin' off his papers, up comes the goat, an' diskyardin' of the tin-can which he's chewin', he begins debauchin' of himse'f with this yere edition of the Stingin' Lizard. It's mighty soon when the editor discovers it an' lays for the goat permiscus; he goes to chunkin' of him up a whole lot. The goat's game an' declar's himse'f, an' thar starts a altercation with the editor an' the goat, of which thar's no tellin' the wind-up, an' which ends only when this yere Bland cuts in, an' the goat's drug Borne. The paper is stopped an' the editor puts in this:

"Our presses are stopped to-day to say that if the weak-minded person who maintains the large, black goat which infests our streets, does not kill the beast, we will. To-day, while engaged in working off our mammoth edition out back of our building, the thievish creature approached unnoticed and consumed seventeen copies of the Stingin' Lizard.

"Which this yere Bland gets incensed at this, an' puts it up the editor can't eat with him no more. But better counsel smooths it over, an' at last this Bland forgives the editor, an' all is forgot. The goat, however, never does; an' he stamps his foot an' prowls 'round for a fracas every tine him an' that editor meets.

"All this yere time Colonel Sterett an' this same Red Dog editor maintains them hostilities. The way they lams loose at each other in their papers is a terror. I allers reckons Colonel Sterett gets a heap the best of this yere mane-chewin'; we-all so regards it, an' so does he, an' he keeps his end up with great sperit an' voylence.

"These yore ink-riots don't go on more'n two months, however, when Colonel Sterett decides that the o'casion calls for somethin' more explicit. As he says, 'Patience ceases to be trumps,' an' so he saddles up a whole lot an' rides over to Red Dog, personal. Colonel Sterett don't impart them plans of his to no one; he simply descends on his foe, sole an' alone, like that game an' chivalrous gent of bell letters which he shorely is; an', son, Colonel Sterett makes a example of that slander-mongerin' Red Dog editor.

"It's about the last drink time in the mornin', an' a passel of them Red Dog sports is convened in front of the Tub of Blood s'loon, when they-all hears a crash an' looks up, an' thar's their editor a- soarin' out of his second-story window. Of course, in a second or so, he hits the ground, an' them Red Dog folks goes over to get the rights of this yere phenomenon. He ain't hurt so but what he gets up an' limps 'round, an' he tells 'em it's the Wolfville editor does it. Next time the Stingin' Lizard comes out, we reads about it:

"The gasconading reptile who is responsible for the slimy life of that prurient sheet, the Coyote, paid us a sneaking visit Saturday. If he had given us notice of his intentions, we would have prepared ourselves and torn his leprous hide from his dehauched and whiskey- poisoned frame, and polluted our fence with it, but he did not. True to his low, currish nature, he crept upon us unawares. Our back was toward him as he entered, perceiving which the cowardly poltroon seized us and threw us through our own window. Having accomplished his fiendish work, the miscreant left, justly fearing our wrath. The Stinging Lizard's exposure of this scoundrel as a drunkard, embezzler, wife-beater, jail-bird, thief, and general all-round blackleg prompted this outrage. Never mind, the creature will hear from us.

"'Which this newspaper business is shorely gettin' some bilious, not to say hectic, a whole lot,' says Dan Boggs, as we reads this. 'I wonder if these yere folks means fight?'

"'Why,' says Enright, 'I don't know as they'd fight none if we-all lets 'em alone, but I don't see how we can. This sort of racket goes on for years in the East, but Wolfville can't stand it. Sech talk as this means blood in Arizona, an' we insists on them traditions that a-way bein' respected. Besides, we owes somethin' to Colonel Sterett.'

"So Enright an' Cherokee hunts up our editor an' asks him whatever he aims to do, an' tells him he's aroused public sentiments to sech heights thar'll be a pop'lar disapp'intment if he don't challenge the Red Dog editor an' beef him. Colonel Sterett allows he's crazy to do it, an' that the Wolfville public can gamble he'll go the distance. So Cherokee an' Jack Moore puts on their guns an' goes over to Red Dog to fix time an' place. The Red Dog editor says he's with 'em, an' they shakes dice for place, an' Cherokee an' Moore wins.

"'Which as evidence of good faith,' says Cherokee, 'we picks Red Dog. We pulls this thing off on the very scene of the vict'ry of Colonel Sterett when he hurls your editor through his window that time. I holds the same to be a mighty proper scheme.'

"'You-all needn't be timid none to come,' says the Red Dog sports. 'You gets a squar' deal from a straight deck; you can gamble on that.'

"'Oh, we ain't apprehensif none,' says Cherokee an' Jack; 'you can shorely look for us.'

"Well, the day's come, an' all Wolfville an' Red Dog turns out to see the trouble. Jack Moore an' Cherokee Hall represents for our editor, an' a brace of Red Dog people shows down for the Stingin' Lizard man. To prevent accidents, Enright an' the Red Dog chief makes every gent but them I names, leave their weepons some'ers else, wherefore thar ain't a gun in what you-all might call the hands of the pop'laces.

"But thar comes a interruption. Jest as them dooelists gets placed, thar's a stoopendous commotion, an' char gin' through the crowd comes that abandoned goat. The presence of so many folks seems like it makes him onusual hostile. Without waitin' to catch his breath even, he lays for the Red Dog editor, who, seein' him comin', bangs away with his '45 an' misses. The goat hits that author in the tail of his coat, an' over he goes; but he keeps on slammin' away with the '45 jest the same.

"Which nacherally everybody scatters fur cover at the first shot, 'cause the editor ain't carin' where he p'ints, an' in a second nobody's in sight but them two journalists an' that goat. I'll say right yere, son, Colonel Sterett an' his fellow editor an' the goat wages the awfullest battle which I ever beholds. Which you shorely oughter heard their expressions. Each of 'em lets go every load he's got, but the goat don't get hit onct.

"When we-all counts twelve shots—six apiece—we goes out an' subdoos the goat by the power of numbers. Of course, the dooel's ended. The Red Dog folks borries a wagon an' takes away their man, who's suffered a heap; an' Peets, he stays over thar an' fusses 'round all night savin' of him. The goat's all right an' goes back to the Abe Lincoln House, where this yere Pete Bland is onreasonable enough to back that shockin conduct of his'n.

"Which it's the last of the Red Dog Stingin' Lizard. That editor allows he won't stay, an' Bland, still adherin' to his goat, allows he won't feed him none if he does. The next issue of the Stingin' Lizard contains this:

"We bid adieu to Red Dog. We will hereafter publish a paper in Tucson; and if we have been weak and mendacious enough to speak in favor of a party of the name of Bland, who misconducts a low beanery which insults an honourable man by stealing his name—we refer to that feed-trough called the Abe Lincoln House—we will correct ourselves in its columns. This person harbours a vile goat, for whose death we will pay 5, and give besides a life-long subscription to our new paper. Last week this mad animal made an unprovoked assault upon us and a professional brother, and beat, butted, wounded, bruised and ill- treated us until we suffer in our whole person. We give notice as we depart, that under no circumstances will we return until this goat is extinct.

"Followin' the onexpected an' thrillin' finish of Colonel Sterett's dooel with the Red Dog editor, an' from which Colonel Sterett emerges onscathed, an' leavin' Peets with his new patient, we all returns in a body to Wolfville. After refreshments in the Red Light, Enright gives his views.

"'Ondoubted,' observes Enright, 'our gent, Colonel Sterett, conducts himse'f in them painful scenes between him an' the goat an' that Red Dog editor in a manner to command respects, an' he returns with honors from them perils. Ther's no more to be done. The affair closes without a stain on the 'scutcheon of Wolfville, or the fair fame of Colonel Sterett; which last may continyoo to promulgate his valyooable paper, shore of our confidence an' upheld by our esteem. It is not incumbent on him to further pursoo this affair.

His name an' honor is satisfied; besides, no gent can afford the recognitions and privileges of the dooello to a party who's sunk so low as to have hostile differences with a goat, an' who persists publicly in followin'em to bitter an voylent concloosions. This Red Dog editor's done put himself outside the pale of any high-sperited gent's consideration by them actions, an' can claim no further notice. Gents, in the name of Wolfville, I tenders congrat'lations to Colonel Sterett on the way in which he meets the dangers of his p'sition, an' the sooperb fashion!!! which he places before us one of the greatest journals of our times. Gents, we drinks to Colonel William Greene Sterett an' the Coyote.'"



CHAPTER VII.

Cherokee Hall Plays Poker.

"Nacherally I'm not much of a sport," remarked the Old Cattleman, as he laid down a paper which told a Monte Carlo story of a fortune lost and won. "Which I'm not remorseless enough to be a cleanstrain gambler. Of course, a kyard sharp can make benevolences an' lavish dust on the needy on the side, but when it gets to a game for money, he can't afford no ruthfulness that a-way, tryin' not to hurt the sore people. He must play his system through, an' with no more conscience than cows, no matter who's run down in the stampede. "For which causes, bein' plumb tender an' sympathetic, I'm shore no good with kyards; an' whenever I dallies tharwith, it is onder the head of amoosements. "Do I regyard gamblin' as immoral? No; I don't reckon none now I do. This bein' what you—all church sharps calls moral is somewhat a matter of health, an' likewise the way you feels. Sick folks usual is a heap more moral than when their health's that excellent it's tantalizin'. "Speakin' of morals, I recalls people who would scorn kyards, but who'd admire to buy a widow's steers for four dollars an' saw 'em off ag'in for forty. They'd take four hundred dollars if some party, locoed to a degree which permits said outrage, would turn up. The right or wrong, what you calls the morality of gatherin' steers for four dollars an' plunderin' people with 'em at forty dollars, wouldn't bother 'em a bit. Which the question with these yere wolves is simply: 'How little can I pay an' how much can I get?' An' yet, as I says, sech parties mighty likely holds themse'fs moral to a degree which is mountainous, an' wouldn't take a twist at faro-bank, or pick up a poker hand, more'n they'd mingle with t'rant'lers an' stingin' lizards. An' some of their moral sports is so onlib'ral! I tells you, son, I've met up with 'em who's that stingy that if they owned a lake, they wouldn't give a duck a drink.

"'Gamblin' is immoral that a-way,' says these yere sports.

"An' yet I don't see no sech heinous difference between searchin' a gent for his roll with steers at forty dollars—the same standin' you in four—an' layin for him by raisin' the ante for the limit before the draw. Mighty likely thar's a reason why one's moral an' the other's black an' bad, but I admits onblushin'ly that the onearthin' tharof is shore too many for dim-eyed folks like me. They strikes me a heap sim'lar; only the kyard sharp goes out ag'inst chances which the steer sharp escapes complete.

"I reckons Cherokee Hall an' me discusses how wrong gamblin' is hundreds of times on leesure days; we frequent talks of it immoderate. Cherokee's views an' mine is side an' side, mostly, although, makin' his livin' turnin' kyards, of course he's more qualified to speak than me.

"'Which I shore finds nothin' wrong in farobank,' says Cherokee. 'Thar's times, however, when some sport who's locoed by bad luck, or thinks he's wronged gets diffusive with his gun. At sech epocks this device has its burdens, I concedes. But I don't perceive no immorality; none whatever.'

"Yes, now you asks the question, I does inform you a while back of this Cherokee Hall bein' prone to charity. He never is much of a talker, but in his way he's a mighty gregar'ous gent. About some things he's game as hornets, Cherokee is; but his nerve fails him when it comes to seein' other people suffer. He can stand bad luck himse'f, an' never turn a ha'r; but no one else's bad luck.

"It ain't once a week, but it's every day, when this yere gray-eyed sport is robbin' his roll for somebody who's settin' in ag'inst disaster. Fact; Cherokee's a heap weak that a-way.

"Of course, turnin' faro, Cherokee knows who has money an' who needs it; keeps tab, so to speak, on the fluctooations of the camp's finances closer'n anybody. The riches an' the poverty of Wolfville is sort o' exposin' itse'f 'round onder his nose; it's a open book to him; an' the knowledge of who's flat, or who's flush, is thrust onto him continyoous. As I says, bein' some sentimental about them hard ships of others, the information costs Cherokee hard onto a diurnal stack or two.

"'Which you're too impulsive a whole lot,' I argues onct when a profligate he's staked, an' who reports himse'f as jumpin' sideways for grub previous, goes careerin' over to the dance hall with them alms he's wrung, an' proceeds on a debauch. 'You oughter not allow them ornery folks to do you. If you'd cultivate the habit of lettin' every gent go a-foot till he can buy a hoss, you'd clean up for a heap more at the end of the week. Now this ingrate whose hand you stiffens ain't buyin' nothin' but nose-paint tharwith.'

"'Which the same plants no regrets with me,' says Cherokee, all careless an' indifferent. 'If this person is sufferin' for whiskey worse'n he's sufferin' for bread, let him loose with the whiskey. The money's his. When I gives a gent a stake, thar's nothin' held back. I don't go playin' the despot as to how he blows it. If this yere party I relieves wants whiskey an' is buyin' whiskey, I approves his play. If I've a weakness at all, it's for seein' folks fetterless an' free.'

"While holdin' Cherokee's views erroneous, so far as he seeks to apply 'em to paupers tankin' up on donations, still I allows it's dealin' faro which has sp'iled him; an' as you can't make no gent over new, I quits an' don't buck his notions about dispensin' charity no more. "Thar's times when this yere Cherokee Hall caroms on a gent who's high-strung that a-way, an' won't take no donations; which this yere sport may be plenty needy to the p'int of perishin', too. That's straight; thar's nachers which is that reluctant about aid, they simply dies standin' before they'll ever ask.

"Once or twice when Cherokee crosses up with one of these yere sensitif souls, an' who's in distress, he never says a word about givin' him anythin'; he turns foxy an' caps him into a little poker. An' in the course of an hour—for he has to go slow an' cunnin', so he don't arouse the victim to suspicions that he's bein' played— Cherokee'll disarrange things so he loses a small stake to him. When he's got this distressed gent's finances reehabilitated some, he shoves out an' quits.

"'An' you can put it flat down,' remarks Cherokee, who's sooperstitious, 'I never loses nothin' nor quits behind on these yere benevolences. Which I oft observes that Providence comes back of my box before ever the week's out, an' makes good.'

"'I once knows a sport in Laredo,' says Texas Thompson, to whom Cherokee is talkin', 'an' is sort o' intimate with him. He's holdin' to somethin' like your system, too, an' plays it right along. Whenever luck's ag'in him to a p'int where he's lost half his roll, he breaks the last half in two an' gives one part to some charity racket. he tells me himse'f he's been addicted to this scheme so long it's got to be a appetite, an' that he never fails to win himse'f outen the hole with what's left. You bet! I believes it; I sees this hold-up do it.'

"I ain't none shore thar ain't some bottom to them bluffs which Cherokee an' Texas puts up about Providence stockin' a deck your way, an' makin' good them gifts. At least, thar's times when it looks like it a heap. An' what I'll now relate shows it.

"One time Cherokee has it sunk deep in his bosom to he'p a gent named Ellis to somethin' like a yellow stack, so he can pull his freight for home. He's come spraddlin' into the West full of hope, an' allowin' he's goin' to get rich in a day. An' now when he finds how the West is swift an' hard to beat, he's homesick to death.

"But Ellis ain't got the dinero. Now Cherokee likes him—for Ellis is a mighty decent form of shorthorn—an' concloodes, all by himse'f, he'll stand in on Ellis' destinies an' fix 'em up a lot. Bein' as Ellis is a easy maverick to wound, Cherokee decides it's better to let him think he wins the stuff, an' not lacerate him by no gifts direct. Another thing, this yere Ellis tenderfoot is plumb contrary; he's shore contrary to the notch of bein' cap'ble of declinin' alms absoloote.

"To make certain Ellis is got rid of, an' headed homeward happy, Cherokee pulls on a little poker with Ellis; an' he takes in Dan Boggs on the play, makin' her three-handed, that a-way for a blind. Dan is informed of the objects of the meetin', an' ain't allowin' to more'n play a dummy hand tharin.

"This yere Ellis makes a tangle at first, wantin to play faro-bank; but Cherokee, who can't control no faro game like he can poker, says 'No;' he's dead weary of faro, turnin' it day an' dark; right then he is out for a little stretch at poker as mere relief. Also Dan objects strenyoous.

"'Which I don't have no luck at faro-bank,' says Dan. 'I does nothin' but lose for a month; I'm made sullen by it. The only bet I stands to win at faro, for plumb four weeks, is a hundred dollars which I puts on a case queen, coppered, over in Tucson the other day. An' I lose that. I'm a hoss-thief if, exackly as the queen is comin' my way, that locoed Tucson marshal don't take a slam at a gent with his six-shooter an' miss; an' the bullet, which is dodgin' an' meanderin' down the room, crosses the layout between the dealer an' me, an' takes the top chip off my bet. An' with it goes the copper. Before I can restore them conditions, the queen falls to lose; an' not havin' no copper on my bet, of course, I'm impoverished for that hundred as aforesaid. You knows the roole— every bet goes as it lays. Said statoote is fully in force in Tucson; an' declinin' to allow anythin' for wild shootin' by that fool marshal, them outcasts corrals my chips. "However do I know thar's an accident?" says the dealer, as he rakes in that queen bet, while I'm expoundin' why it should be comin' to me. "Mebby she's an accident, an' mebby ag'in that hom'cide who's bustin' 'round yere with his gun, is in league with you-all, an' shoots that copper off designful, thinkin' the queen's comin' the other way. If accidents is allowed to control in faro-bank, the house would never win a chip." So,' concloodes Dan, 'they gets away with my hundred, invokin' strict rooles onto me. While I can't say they ain't right, I makes up my mind my luck's too rank for faro, an' registers vows not to put a peso on another layout for a year. As the time limit ain't up, I can't buck faro-bank none; but if you an' Ellis, Cherokee, can tol'rate a little draw, I'm your onmurmurin' dupe.'

"As I relates prior, the play is to let Ellis win a home-stake an' quit. At last they begins, Ellis seein' thar's no chance for faro- bank. Dan plays but little; usual, he merely picks up his kyards, cusses a lot, an' passes out. Now an' then, when it's his ante, or Cherokee stays out for the looks of the thing, Dan goes to the front an' sweetens Ellis for a handful of chips.

"Little by little, by layin' down good hands, breakin' pa'rs before a draw, an' gen'rally carryin' on tail-first an' scand'lous, Cherokee an' Dan is gettin' a few layers of fat on Ellis' ribs. But they has to lay low to do it. Oh! he'd kick over the table in a second if he even smells the play.

"Now yere's where Providence makes its deboo. It happens while these charities is proceedin', a avaricious gent—a stranger within our gates, he is—after regyardin' the game awhile, takes to deemin' it easy. The avaricious gent wants in; an' as Ellis, who's a heap elated at his luck an' is already talkin' of the killin' he's makin', says 'Yes,' an' as Dan an' Cherokee can't say 'No' without bein' onp'lite, the avaricious gent butts in. It all disturbs Cherokee, who's a nervous sharp; an' when he sees how greedy the avaricious gent is for what he deems to be a shore thing, he concloodes to drop him plenty hard. "It's four-hand poker now, an' the game wags on for a dozen hands. Dan is in hard luck; Cherokee on his part gets driven out each hand; an' Ellis an' the avaricious gent is doin' what little winnin's bein' done, between 'em. It's evident by this time, too, the avaricious gent's layin' for Cherokee. This oninstructed person looks on Cherokee as both imbecile an' onlucky to boot.

"The avaricious gent gets action suddener than he thinks. It's a jack pot. She goes by Ellis an' Dan; then Cherokee breaks her for the limit, two bloo chips, the par value whereof is ten dollars. "'You breaks for ten?' says the avaricious gent, who's on Cherokee's left an' has the last say; 'well, I sees the break an' lifts it the limit.' An' the avaricious gent puts up four bloos. Ellis an' Dan, holdin' nothin' an' gettin' crafty, ducks.

"When the avaricious gent puts up his four bloo beans, Cherokee does somethin' no one ever sees him do before. He gets quer'lous an' complainin', an' begins to fuss a lot over his bad luck.

"'What did you-all come in for?' he says to the avaricious gent, as peevish as a sick infant. 'You sees me settin' yere in the muddiest of luck; can't you a-bear to let me win a pot? You ain't got no hand to come in on neither, an' I'll bet on it. You jest nacherally stacks in, relyin' on bluffin' me, or out-luckin' me on the draw. Well, you can't bluff; I'll see this yere through,' says Cherokee, puttin' up two more sky-colored beans an' actin' like he's gettin' heated, 'if it takes my last chip. As I do, however, jest to onmask you an' show my friends, as I says, that you ain't got a thing, I'll wager you two on the side, right now, that the pa'r of jacks I breaks on, is bigger than the hand on which you comes in an' makes that two-button tilt.' As he says this, Cherokee regyards the avaricious gent like he's plumb disgusted.

"It turns out, when Cherokee makes this yere long an' fretful break, the avaricious gent's holdin' a brace of kings. He's delighted with Cherokee's uproar, an' thinks how soft, an' what a case of open- work, he is.

"'You offers two bloos I can't beat a pa'r of jacks?' says the avaricious gent. Which he's plumb wolf, an' out for every drop of blood!

"'That's what I says,' replies Cherokee, some sullen.

"'I goes you,' says the avaricious gent, showin' a pa'r of kings.

"'Thar you be,' snarls Cherokee, with a howl like a sore-head dog, a-chuckin' the avaricious gent a couple of chips; 'thar you go ag'in! I can't beat nothin'; which I couldn't beat a drum! "The avaricious gent c'llects them two azure bones; after which he diskyards three, drawin' to his two kings, an' sets back to win the main pot. He shore concloodes it's a red letter round-up for him.

"'I reckons now that I knows what you has,' says Cherokee, displayin' a ace in a foolish way, 'I upholds this yere ace on the side an' asks for two kyards.'

"The avaricious gent adds a third king to his list an' feels like sunny weather. Cherokee picks up his hand after the draw, an' the avaricious gent, who's viewin' him sharp, notes that he looks a heap morbid.

"All at once Cherokee braces up mighty savage, like he's ugly an' desp'rate about his bad luck.

"'If this yere limit was any size at all, a blooded gent might stand some show. Which I'd bluff you outen your moccasins if I wasn't reepressed by a limit whereof a child should be ashamed. I shore don't know how I mislays my se'f-respect to sech a pitch as to go settin' into these yere paltry plays.'

"'Which you see yere a lot!' says the avaricious gent, shakin' with delight, an' lookin' at them three crowned heads he holds; 'don't howl all night about a wrong what's so easy to rectify. We removes the limits, an' you can spread your pinions an' soar to any altitoode you please.'

"Cherokee looks at him hateful as a murderer; he seems like he's bein' goaded. Then, like he's made up his mind to die right yere, Cherokee turns in without no more words an' bets five hundred dollars. It makes Ellis, who's new an' plumb poor that a-way, sort o' draw a long breath.

"'Which you'll climb some for this pot if you gets it,' says Cherokee, after his money's up; an' his tones is shore resentful.

"The avaricious gent thinks it's a bluff. He deems them three kings good. Cherokee most likely don't better by the draw. If he does, it's nothin' worse than aces up, or a triangle of jacks. That's the way this sordid sport lines up Cherokee's hand. "'Merely to show you the error of your ways,' he remarks, 'an' to teach you to lead a 'happier an' a better life, I sees your five hundred an' raises her back the same.' An' the avaricious gent counts off a thousand dollars. 'Thar,' he says when it's up, 'now go as far as you like. Make it a ceilin' play if the sperit moves you.'

"'I sees it an' lifts her for five hundred more,' retorts Cherokee. An' he shoves his dust to the center. "Cherokee's peevishness is gone, an' his fault-findin' is over. He's turned as confident an' easy as a old shoe.

"It strikes the avaricious gent as alarmin', this quick switch in the way Cherokee feels. It's cl'ar, as one looks in his face, that them trio of kings ain't no sech monstrosities as they was. He ain't half so shore they wins. After lookin' a while he says, an' his tones shows he's plumb doobious:

"'That last raise over-sizes me.'

"'That's it!' groans Cherokee, like his contempt for all mankind is comin' back. 'By the time I gets a decent hand every sport at the table's broke. What show do I have! However, I pinches down to meet your poverty. Put up what stuff you has.'

"The avaricious gent slowly gets up his last peso; he's out on a limb, an' he somehow begins to feel it. When the money's up, Cherokee throws down three aces an' a pa'r of nines, an' rakes the dust.

"'Next time,' says Cherokee, 'don't come fomentin' 'round poker games which is strangers to you complete. Moreover, don't let a gent talk you into fal'cies touchin' his hand. Which I'm the proud proprietor of them three aces when I breaks the pot. You-all lose this time; but if you'll only paste them dogmas I gives you in your sombrero, an' read 'em over from time to time, you'll notice they flows a profit. We three, 'concloodes Cherokee, turnin' ag'in to Dan an' Ellis, 'will now resoome our wrong-doin' at the p'int where this yere former plootocrat interrupts. A benign Providence has fixed me plenty strong. Wherefore, if either of you sports should tap me for a handful of hundreds, them veins of mine will stand the drain. Dan, it's your deal.'"



CHAPTER VIII

The Treachery of Curly Ben

"ere! you black boy, Tom!" and the Old Cattleman's voice rose loudly as he commanded the approach of that buoyant servitor, who supervised his master's destinies, and performed in the triangular role of valet, guardian and friend. "Yere, you; go to the barkeep of this tavern an' tell him to frame me up a pitcher of that peach brandy an' honey the way I shows him how. An' when he's got her organized, bring it out to us with two glasses by the fire. You-all ain't filin' no objections to a drink, be you?" This last was to me. "As for me, personal," he continued, "you can put down a bet I'm as dry as a covered bridge." I readily assented to peach and honey. I would agree to raw whiskey if it were needed to appease him and permit me to remain in his graces.

"Thar's one thing, one redeemin' thing I might say, about the East," he went on, when the peach and honey appeared, "an' the same claims my respects entire; that's its nose-paint. Which we shorely suffers in the Southwest from beverages of the most ornery kind."

"There's a word I've wanted to ask you about more than once," I said. "What do you mean by 'ornery,' and where do you get it?"

"Where do I get it?" he responded, with a tinge of scorn. "Where do I rope onto any word? I jest nacherally reaches out an' acquires it a whole lot, like I do the rest of the language I employs. As for what it means, I would have allowed that any gent who escapes bein' as weak-minded as Thompson's colt—an' that cayouse is that imbecile he used tos wim a river to get a drink—would hesitate with shame to ask sech questions.

"'Ornery' is a word the meanin' whereof is goin' to depend a heap on what you brands with it." This was said like an oracle. "Also, the same means more or less accordin' to who all puts the word in play. I remembers a mighty decent sort of sport, old Cape Willingham it is; an' yet Dan Boggs is forever referrin' to old Cape as 'ornery.' An' I reckon Dan thinks he is. Which the trouble with Cape, from Dan's standpoint, is this: Cape is one of these yere precise parties, acc'rate as to all he does, an' plenty partic'lar about his looks. An Osage buck, paintin' for a dance, wouldn't worry more over his feachers, an' the way the ocher should be streaked on.

"Now this yere Cape is shy an eye, where an Apache pokes it out with a lance, back in Cochise's time; an', as he regyards his countenance as seemin' over rocky, bein' redooced to one eye as I relates, he sends East an' gets a glass eye. This ain't where Cape's technical'ties about his looks trails in, however; an', if he had paused thar in his rehabilitations, Boggs allers put it up he'd a- found no fault. But Cape notices that about tenth drink time his shore-enough eye begins for to show up bloodshot, an' is a bad mate for the glass eye, the same bein' onaffected by drink. So what does Cape do but have a bloodshot eye made, an' takes to packin' the same on his person constant. As Cape drinks his forty drops all commodious, he sort o' keeps tabs on himse'f in the lookin' glass back of the bar; an' when the good eye commences to turn red with them libations he's countin' into the corral, he ups an' shifts his bresh; digs out the white eye an' plants the drunken eye in the place.

"Shore! none of us cares except Dan Boggs; but Dan feels it to that extent, it's all Colonel Sterett an' Doc Peets an' Old Man Enright can do, added to Dan's bein' by nacher a born gent that a-way, to keep Dan from mentionin' it to old Cape.

"'A gent who comes from a good fam'ly, like you-all,' says Old Man Enright to Dan, sort o' soothin' of him, 'oughter be removed above makin' comments on pore old Cape shiftin' his optics. Troo! it's a weakness, but where is the sport who hasn't weaknesses likewise. Which you-all is a mighty sight to one side of bein' perfect yourse'f, Dan, an' yet we don't go 'round breakin' the information off in you every tinic you makes a queer play. An' you must b'ar with Cape, an' them caprices of his.' "'I ain't denyin' nothin',' declar's Dan. 'I'm the last longhorn in Wolfville to be revilin' old Cape, an' refoosin' him his plain American right to go pirootin' 'round among his eyes as suits his taste. But I'm a mighty nervous man that a-way, an' Cape knows, or oughter know, how, as I states, I'm nacherally all onstrung, an' that his carryin's on with them eyes gives me the fantods. Onder all the circumstances, I claims his conduct is ornery, an' not what a invalid like me has a right to expect.'

"No; Dan never says nothin' to Cape; or does anythin' 'cept talk to Enright an' the rest of us about how he can't stand Cape shiftin' them eyes. An' it ain't affectation on the part of Dan; he shorely feels them shifts. Many a time, when it's go to be red eye time with Cape, an' as the latter is scroop'lously makin' said transfers, have I beheld Dan arise in silent agony, an' go to bite hunks outen a pine shelf that is built on the Red Light wall.

"'Which that ornery Cape,' says Dan, as he picks the splinters from his mouth after sech exercises, 'would drive me as locoed as a coyote if I don't take refooge in some sech play like that.'

"But, as I su'gests about this term 'ornery;' it depends a lot on who uses it, an' what for. Now Dan never refers to old Cape except as 'ornery;' while Enright an' the rest of us sees nothin' from soda to hock in Cape, doorin' them few months he mingles with us, which merits sech obloquys.

"No; ornery is a word that means what it says an' is shore deescriptif. Coyotes is ornery, sheep is ornery; an' them low-flung hoomans who herds sheep is ornery, speshul. Of course, the term has misapplications; as an extreme case, I've even heard ign'rant tenderfeet who alloodes to the whole West as 'ornery.' But them folks is too debased an' too darkened to demand comments."

"You are very loyal to the West," I remarked.

"Which I shorely oughter be," retorted the old gentleman. "The West has been some loyal to me. Troo! it stands to reason that a party fresh from the East, where the horns has been knocked offen everythin' for two or three hundred years, an' conditions genial is as soft as a goose-ha'r pillow, is goin' to notice some turgid changes when he lands in Arizona. But a shorthorn, that a-way, should reserve his jedgment till he gets acquainted, or gets lynched, or otherwise experiences the West in its troo colors. While Arizona, for speciment, don't go up an' put her arms about the neck of every towerist that comes chargin' into camp, her failure to perform said rites arises rather from dignity than hauteur. Arizona don't put on dog; but she has her se'f-respectin' ways, an' stands a pat hand on towerists.

"If I was called on to lay out a system to guide a tenderfoot who is considerin' on makin' Arizona his home-camp, I'd advise him to make his deboo in that territory in a sperit of ca'm an' silent se'f- reliance. Sech a gent might reside in Wolfville, say three months. He might meet her citizens, buck her faro-banks, drink her nose- paint, shake a hilarious hoof in her hurdy gurdies, ask for his letters, or change in whatever sums seems meet to him at the New York Store for shirts. Also, he might come buttin' along into the O. K. Restauraw three times a day with the balance of the band, an' Missis Rucker would shorely turn her grub-game for him, for the limit if he so pleased. But still, most likely every gent in camp would maintain doorin' his novitiate a decent distance with this yere stranger; they wouldn't onbuckle an' be drunk with him free an' social like, an' with the bridle off, like pards who has crossed the plains together an' seen extremes. All this, with a chill onto it, a tenderfoot would find himse'f ag'inst for the first few months in Wolfville.

"An' yet, my steer to him would be not to get discouraged. The camp's sizin' him up; that's all. If he perseveres, ca'm an' c'llected like I states, along the trail of his destiny, he'll shore come winner on the deal. At the end of three months, or mebby in onusual cases four months, jest as this yere maverick is goin' into the dance hall, or mebby the Red Light, some gent will chunk him one in the back with his shet fist an' say, 'How be you? You double- dealin', cattle-stealin', foogitive son of a murdererin' hoss-thief, how be you?'

"Now, right thar is whar this yere shorthorn wants to maintain his presence of mind. He don't want to go makin' no vain plays for his six-shooter, or indulge in no sour ranikaboo retorts. That gent likes him. With Wolfville social conditions, this yere greetin' is what you sports who comes from the far No'th calls 'the beginnin' of the thaw. The ice is breakin' up; an' if our candidate sets in his saddle steady an' with wisdom at this back-thumpin', name-callin' epock, an' don't take to millin' 'round for trouble, in two minutes him an' that gregar'ous gent who's accosted him is drinkin' an' fraternizin' together like two stage hold-ups in a strange camp. The West ain't ornery; she's simply reserved a whole lot.

"Mighty likely now," continued my friend, following a profound pause which was comfortably filled with peach and honey; "it's mighty likely now, comin' down to folks, that the most ornery party I ever knows is Curly Ben. This yere Ben is killed, final; clowned by old Captain Moon. Thar's a strange circumstance attendin', as the papers say, the obliteration of this Curly Ben, an' it makes a heap of an impression on me at the time. It shows how the instinct to do things, that a bent is allers carryin' 'round in his mind, gets sort o' located in his nerves mebby, an' he'll do 'em without his intellects ridin' herd on the play—do 'em like Curly Ben does, after his light is out complete.

"This yere is what I'm trailin' up to: When Captain Moon fetches Curly Ben that time, Curly is playin' kyards. He's jest dealin', when, onbeknown to him, Moon comes Injunin' up from the r'ar surreptitious, an' drills Curly Ben through the head; an' the bullet bein' a '45 Colt's—for Moon ain't toyin' with Curly an' means business—goes plumb through an' emerges from onder Curly Ben's off eye. For that matter, it breaks the arm of a party who's playin' opp'site to Curly, an' who is skinnin' his pasteboards at the time, thinkin' nothin' of war. Which the queer part is this: Curly, as I states—an' he never knows what hits him, an' is as dead as Santa Anna in a moment—is dealin' the kyards. He's got the deck in his hands. An' yet, when the public picks Curly off the floor, he's pulled his two guns, an' has got one cocked. Now what do you—all deem of that for the workin' of a left-over impulse when a gent is dead?

"But, as I remarks yeretofore, Curly Ben is the most ornery person I ever overtakes, an' the feelin's of the camp is in nowise laid waste when Moon adds him to the list that time in the Red Light bar. It's this a-way:

"It's about a month before, when Captain Moon an' his nephy, with two 8-mule teams and four big three-an'-a-half Bain wagons, two lead an' two trail they be, comes freightin' out of Silver City with their eyes on Wolfville. It's the fourth night out, an' they're camped near a Injun agency. About midnight a half dozen of the bucks comes scoutin' 'round their camp, allowin' to a moral certainty they'll see what's loose an' little enough for 'em to pull. The aborigines makes the error of goin' up the wind from Moon's mules, which is grazin' about with hobbles on, an' them sagacious anamiles actooally has fits. It's a fact, if you want to see a mule go plumb into the air an' remain, jest let him get a good, ample, onmistakable smell of a Injun! It simply onhinges his reason; he ain't no more responsible than a cimmaron sheep. No, it ain't that the savage is out to do anything oncommon to the mule; it's merely one of the mule's illoosions, as I've told you once before. Jest the same, if them Injuns is comin' to braid his tail an' braid it tight, that mule couldn't feel more frantic.

"When these yere faithful mules takes to surgin' about the scene on two feet, Moon's nephy grabs a Winchester an' pumps a load or so into the darkness for gen'ral results. An' he has a heap of luck. He shorely stops one of them Apaches in his lopin' up, an' down the land for good an' all.

"In less than no time the whole tribe is down on Captain Moon an' his nephy, demandin' blood. Thar's plenty of some sorts of wisdom about a savage, an' these yere Apaches ain't runnin' right in on Moon an' his relatif neither. They was perfeekly familiar with the accoomulation of cartridges in a Winchester, an' tharfore goes about the stirrin' up of Moon an' that nepby plumb wary.

"Moon an' the boy goes in between the wagons, blazin' an' bangin' away at whatever moves or makes a noise; an' as they've been all through sech festivals before, they regyards their final chances to be as good as an even break, or better.

"While them Apaches is dodgin' about among the rocks, an' howlin' contempt, an' passin' resolootions of revenge touchin' the two Moons, the Injun agent comes troopin' along. He seeks to round-up his savages an' herd 'em back to the agency. The Apaches, on their side, is demandin' the capture of the nephy Moon for sp'ilin' one of their young men.

"The agent is a prairie dog jest out from the East, an' don't know half as much about what's goin' on inside of a Apache as a horned toad. He comes down to the aige of hostil'ties, as you-all might call it, an' makes Moon an' his Winchester workin' nephy a speech. He addresses 'em a whole lot on the enormity of downin' Apaches who goes prowlin' about an' scarin' up your mules at midnight, in what this yere witless agent calls a 'motif of childish cur'osity,' an' he winds up the powwow with demandin' the surrender of the 'hom'cide.'

"'Surrender nothin'!' says Captain Moon. 'You tell your Injuns to line out for their camp; an' don't you yourse'f get too zealous neither an' come too clost, or as shore as I casts my first vote for Matty Van Buren, I'll plug you plumb center.'

"But the nephy, he thinks different. In spite of Captain Moon's protests, he gives himse'f up to the agent on the promise of protection.

"'You're gone, lad,' says Moon, when the nephy insists on yieldin'; 'you won't last as long as a pint of whiskey in a five-hand poker game.'

"But this yere young Moon is obdurate an' goes over an' gives himse'f to the agent, who puts it up he'll send him to Prescott to be tried in co't for beefin' the mule-thief Apache that a-way.

"Shore! it turns out jest as Captain Moon says. Before they'd gone a half mile, them wards of the gov'ment, as I once hears a big chief from Washin'ton call 'em, takes the nephy from this yere fallacious agent an' by fourth drink time that mornin', or when it's been sun- up three hours, that nephy is nothin' but a mem'ry.

"How do they kill him? In a fashion which, from the coigne your Apache views things, does 'em proud. That nephy is immolated as follows: They ropes him out, wrist an' ankle, with four lariats; pegs him out like he's a hide they're goin' to dry. Thar's a big ant hill close at hand; it's with reference to this yere ant colony that the nephy is staked out. In three hours from the tune them ants gets the word from the Apaches, they've done eat the nephy up, an' the last vestitch of him plumb disappears with the last ant, as the latter resoomes his labors onder the earth.

"Why, shore! these yere ants'll eat folks. They re-yards sech reepasts as festivals, an' seasons of reelaxation from the sterner dooties of a ant. I recalls once how we loses Locoed Charlie, which demented party I b'lieve I mentions to you prior. This yere Charlie takes a day off from where he's workin'—at least he calls it labor- -at the stage corrals, an' goes curvin' over to Red Dog. Charlie tanks up on the whiskey of that hamlet, compared to which the worst nose-paint ever sold in Wolfville is nectar. They palms off mebby it's a quart of this jooce on Charlie, an' then he p'ints out for Wolfville.

"That's the last of the pore drunkard. His pony is nickcrin' about the corral gates, pleadin' with the mules inside to open 'em, in the mornin', but no sign or smoke of Locoed Charlie. An' he never does show up no more.

"If it's Enright or Cherokee Hall, or any valyooed citizen, thar would have issooed forth a war party, an' Red Dog would have been sacked an' burned but what the missin' gent would have been turned out. But it's different about Locoed Charlie. He hadn't that hold on the pop'lar heart; didn't fill sech a place in the gen'ral eye; an' so, barrin' a word or two of wonder, over their drink at the Red Light, I don't reckon now the Wolfville folks disturbs themse'fs partic'lar about the camp bein' shy Charlie.

"It's the second day when a teamster, trackin' over from Red Dog, developes what's left of Locoed Charlie. He falls off his hoss, with that load of Red Dog whiskey, an' every notion or idee or sensation absolootely effaced. An' where Charlie loses is, he falls by a ant hill. Yes; they shorely takes Charlie in. Thar's nothin' left of him when the teamster locates the remainder, but his clothes, his spurs an' his 'natomy. The r'ar gyard of them ants has long since retired with the final fragments of Locoed Charlie. "You-all might o' seen the story. Colonel Sterett writes it up in the Coyote, an' heads it, 'Hunger is a Terrible Thing.' This sot Charlie comin' to his death that a-way puts a awful scare over Huggins an' Old Monte. It reforms 'em for more'n two hours. Huggins, who is allers frontin' up as one who possesses public sperit, tries to look plumb dignified about it, an' remarks to Dave Tutt in the New York Store as how he thinks we oughter throw in around an' build a monument to Locoed Charlie. Dave allows that, while he's with Huggins in them projecks, he wants to add a monument to the ants. The founders of the scheme sort o' splittin' at the go-in that a-way, it don't get no further, an' the monument to Locoed Charlie, as a enterprise, bogs down. But to continyoo on the trail of Captain Moon.

"Moon comes rumblin' into Wolfville, over-doo mebby it's two weeks, bringin' both teams. Thar-upon he relates them outrages. Thar's but one thought, that agent has lived too long.

"'If he was the usual common form of felon,' says Enright, 'ondoubted—for it would be their dooty—the vig'lance committee local to them parts would string him up. But that ain't possible; this yere miscreant is a gov'ment official an' wears the gov'ment brand, an' even the Stranglers, of whatever commoonity, ain't strong enough, an' wouldn't be jestified in stackin' in ag'in the gov'ment. Captain Moon's only show is a feud. He oughter caper over an', as private as possible, arrogate to himse'f the skelp of this yere agent who abandons his relatif to them hostiles.'

"Wolfville listens to Captain Moon's hist'ry of his wrongs; but aside from them eloocidations of Enright, no gent says much. Thar's some games where troo p'liteness consists in sayin' nothin' an' knowin' less. But the most careless hand in camp can see that Moon's aimin' at reprisals.

"This Curly Ben is trackin' about Wolfville at the time. Curly ain't what you-all would call a elevated character. He's a rustler of cattle, an' a smuggler of Mexican goods, an' Curly an' the Yoonited States marshals has had more turn-ups than one. But Curly is dead game; an' so far, he manages to either out-luck or out-shoot them magistrates; an', as I says, when Moon comes wanderin' in that time mournin' for his nephy, Curly has been projectin' about camp for like it's a week.

"Moon sort o' roominates on the play, up an' down, for a day or so, makin' out a plan. He don't want to go back himse'f; the agent knows him, an' them Injuns knows him, an' it's even money, if he comes pokin' into their bailiwick, they'll tumble to his errant. In sech events, they're shore doo to corral him an' give them ants another holiday. It's the ant part that gives pore Captain Moon a chill.

"'I'll take a chance on a bowie knife,' says Moon to Dan Boggs,— Dan, bein' a sympathetic gent an' takin' nacherally to folks in trouble, has Moon's confidence from the jump; 'I'll take a chance on a bowie knife; an' as for a gun, I simply courts the resk. But then ants dazzles me—I lay down to ants, an' I looks on it as no disgrace to a gent to say so.' "'Ants shorely do sound poignant,' admits Dan, 'speshully them big black an' red ants that has stingers like hornets an' pinchers like bugs. Sech insecks, armed to the teeth as they be, an' laid out to fight both ways from the middle, is likewise too many for me. I would refoose battle with 'em myse'f.'

"It ain't long before Captain Moon an' Curly Ben is seen confidin' an' conferrin' with one another, an' drinkin' by themse'fs, an' no one has to be told that Moon's makin' negotiations with Curly to ride over an' down the agent. The idee is pecooliarly grateful to Wolfville. It stands to win no matter how the kyards lay in the box. If Curly fetches the agent flutterin' from his limb, thar's one miscreant less in Arizona, if the agent gets the drop an' puts out Curly Ben, it comes forth jest the same. It's the camp's theery that, in all that entitles 'em to death, the case stands hoss an' hoss between the agent an' Curly Ben.

"'An' if they both gets downed, it's a whip-saw, we win both ways;' says Cherokee Hall, an' the rest of us files away our nose-paint in silent assent tharwith. "It comes out later that Moon agrees to give Curly Ben fifteen hundred dollars an' a pony, if he'll go over an' kill off the agent. Curly Ben says the prop'sition is the pleasantest thing he hears since he leaves the Panhandle ten years before, an' so he accepts five hundred dollars an' the pony—the same bein' the nacher of payments in advance—an' goes clatterin' off up the canyon one evenin' on his mission of jestice. An' then we hears no more of Curly Ben for about a month. No one marvels none at this, however, as downin' any given gent is a prop'sition which in workin' out is likely to involve delays.

"One day, with unruffled brow an' an air all careless an' free, Curly Ben rides into Wolfville an' begins orderin' whiskey at the Red Light before he's hardly cl'ar of the saddle. Thar ain't nobody in camp, from Doc Peets to Missis Rucker, but what's eager to know the finish of Curly's expedition, but of course everybody hobbles his feelin's in them behalfs. It's Captain Moon's fooneral, an' he oughter have a first, oninterrupted say. Moon comes up to Curly Ben where Curly is cuttin' the alkali dust outen his throat at the Red Light bar.

"'Did you get him?' Moon asks after a few p'lite preeliminaries. 'Did you bring back his ha'r an' y'ears like we agrees?'

"'Have you-all got the other thousand ready,' says Curly Ben. 'in the event I do?'

"'Right yere in my war-bags,' says Moon, 'awaitin' to make good for your tine an' talent an' trouble in revengin' my pore nephy's deemise by way of them insecks.' An' Moon slaps his pocket as locatin' the dinero.

"'Well, I don't get him,' says Curly Ben ca'mly, settin' his glass on the bar.

"Thar's a pause of mebby two minutes, doorin' which Moon looks cloudy, as though he don't like the way the kyards is comin'; Curly Ben, on his part, is smilin' like what Huggins calls 'one of his songstresses' over in the Bird Cage Op'ry House. After a bit, Moon resoomes them investigations.

"'Don't I give you four stacks of reds an' a pony,' he says, 'to reepair to that murderer an' floor-manage his obsequies? An' don't I promise you eight stacks more when you reports with that outcast's y'ears an' ha'r, as showin' good faith?'

"'C'rrect; every word,' says Curly Ben, lightin' a seegyar an then leanin' his elbows on the bar, a heap onmoved.

"'Which I would admire to know, then,' says Moon, an' his eyes is gettin' little an' hard, 'why you-all don't made good them compacts.'

"'Well, I'll onfold the reasons an' make it as plain an' cl'ar an' convincin' as a spade flush,' says Curly Ben. 'When I gets to this yere victim of ours, I finds him to be a mighty profoose an' lavish form of sport. The moment I'm finished explainin' to him my mission, an' jest as I onlimbers my six-shooter to get him where he lives, he offers me five thousand dollars to come back yere an' kill you. Nacherally, after that, me an' this yere subject of our plot takes a few drinks, talks it over, an' yere I be.'

"'But what be you aimin' to do?' asks Moon.

"'What be you aimin' to do?' responds Curly Ben. As I states, he's shore the most ornery coyote!

"'I don't onderstand,' says Moon.

"'Why it's as obv'ous,' retorts Curly Ben, 'as the Fence Rail brand, an' that takes up the whole side of a cow. The question now is, do you raise this yere gent? He raises you as I explains; now do you quit, or tilt him, say, a thousand better?'

"'An' suppose I don't?' says Moon, sort o' figgerin' for a moment or so. 'What do you reckon now would be your next move?'

"'Thar would be but one thing to do,' says Curly Ben mighty placid; 'I'd shorely take him. I would proceed with your destruction at once, an' return to this agent gent an' accept that five thousand dollar honorarium he offers.'

"Curly Ben is 'bad' plumb through, an' the sights, as they says in the picturesque language of the Southwest, has been filed from his guns for many years. Which this last is runnin' in Moon's head while he talks with his disgustin' emmissary. Moon ain't out to take chances on gettin' the worst of it. An' tharfore, Moon at once waxes cunnin' a whole lot.

"'I'm a pore man,' he says, 'but if it takes them teams of mine, to the last tire an' the last hoof, I've got to have this agent's ha'r an' y'ears. You camp around the Red Light awhile, Curly, till I go over to the New York Store an' see about more money. I'll be back while you're layin' out another drink.'

"Now it's not to the credit of Curly, as a crim'nal who puts thought into his labors, that he lets Captain Moon turn his flank the easy way he does. It displays Curly as lackin' a heap in mil'tary genius. I don't presoome to explain it; an' it's all so dead onnacheral at this juncture that the only s'lootion I'm cap'ble of givin' it is that it's preedestinated that a-way. Curly not only lets Moon walk off, which after he hangs up that bluff about takin' them terms of the agent's is mighty irreg'lar, but he's that obtoose he sits down to play kyards, while he's waitin', with his back to the door. Why! it's like sooicide!

"Moon goes out to his wagons an' gets, an' buckles on, his guns. Quick, crafty, brisk as a cat an' with no more noise, Moon comes walkin' into the Red Light door. He sees Curly where he sits at seven-up, with his back turned towards him.

"'One for jack!' says Curly, turnin' that fav'rite kyard. Moon sort o' drifts to his r'ar.

"'Bang!' says Moon's pistol, an' Curly falls for'ards onto the table, an' then onto the floor, the bullet plumb through his head, as I informs you.

"Curly Ben never has the shadow of a tip, he's out of the Red Light an' into the regions beyond, like snappin' your thumb an' finger. It's as sharp as the buck of a pony, he's Moon's meat in a minute.

"No, thar's nothin' for Wolfville to do. Moon's jestified. Which his play is the one trail out, for up to that p'int where Moon onhooks his guns, Curly ain't done nothin' to put him in reach of the Stranglers. Committees of vig'lance, that a-way, like shore-enough co'ts, can't prevent crime, they only punish it, an' up to where Moon gets decisive action, thar's no openin' by which the Stranglers could cut in on the deal. Yes, Enright convenes his committee an' goes through the motions of tryin' Moon. They does this to preserve appearances, but of course they throws Moon loose. An' as thar's reasons, as any gent can see, why no one cares to have the story as it is, be made a subject of invidious gossip in Red Dog, an' other outfits envious of Wolfville, at Enright's suggestion, the Stranglers bases the acquittal of Moon on the fact that Curly Ben deloodes Moon's sister, back in the States, an' then deserts her. Moon cuts the trail of the base sedoocer in Wolfville, an' gathers him in accordin', an' as a brother preyed on by his sister's wrongs is shorely expected to do."

"But Curly Ben never did mislead Moon's sister, did he?" I asked, for the confident fashion where-with my old friend reeled off the finding of Wolfville's vigilance committee, and the reasons, almost imposed on me.

"Which you can bet the limit," he observed fiercely, as he prepared to go into the hotel, "which you can go the limit open, son, Curly ain't none too good."



CHAPTER IX

Colonel Sterett's Reminiscences

"An' who is Colonel William Greene Sterett, you asks?" repeated the Old Cattleman, with some indignant elevation of voice. "He's the founder of the Coyote, Wolfville's first newspaper; is as cultivated a gent that a-way as acquires his nose-paint at the Red Light's bar; an' comes of as good a Kaintucky fam'ly as ever distils its own whiskey or loses its money on a hoss. Son, I tells you this prior." This last reproachfully.

"No, Colonel Sterett ain't old none—not what you-all would call aged. When he comes weavin' into Wolfville that time, I reckons now Colonel Sterett is mighty likely about twenty-odd years younger than me, an' at that time I shows about fifty rings on my horns. As for eddication, he's shore a even break with Doc Peets, an' as I remarks frequent, I never calls the hand of that gent in Arizona who for a lib'ral enlightenment is bullsnakes to rattlesnakes with Peets.

"Speakin' about who Colonel Sterett is, he onfolds his pedigree in full one evenin' when we're all sort o' self-herded in the New York Store. Which his story is a proud one, an' I'm a jedge because comin as I do from Tennessee myse'f, nacherally I saveys all about Kaintucky. Thar's three grades of folks in Kaintucky, the same bein' contingent entire on whereabouts them folks is camped. Thar's the Bloo Grass deestrict, the Pennyr'yal deestrict, an' the Purchase. The Bloo Grass folks is the 'ristocrats, while them low-flung trash from the Purchase is a heap plebeian. The Pennyr'yal outfit is kind o' hesitatin' 'round between a balk an' a break-down in between the other two, an' is part 'ristocratic that a-way an' part mud. As for Colonel Sterett, he's pure strain Bloo Grass, an' he shows it. I'll say this for the Colonel, an' it shorely knits me to him from the first, he could take a bigger drink of whiskey without sugar or water than ever I sees a gent take in my life.

"That time I alloods to, when Colonel Sterett vouchsafes them recollections, we-all is in the r'ar wareroom of the New York Store where the whiskey bar'ls be, samplin' some Valley Tan that's jest been freighted in. As she's new goods, that Valley Tan, an' as our troo views touchin' its merits is important to the camp, we're testin' the beverage plenty free an' copious. No expert gent can give opinions worth a white chip concernin' nosepaint short o' six drinks, an' we wasn't out to make no errors in our findin's about that Valley Tan. So, as I relates, we're all mebby some five drinks to the good, an' at last the talk, which has strayed over into the high grass an' is gettin' a whole lot too learned an' profound for most of the herd to cut in on, settles down between Doc Peets an Colonel Sterett as bein' the only two sports able to protect their play tharin.

"An' you can go as far as you like on it,' says the Colonel to Peets, 'I'm plumb wise an' full concernin' the transmigration of souls. I gives it my hearty beliefs. I can count a gent up the moment I looks at him; also I knows exactly what he is before he's a hooman bein'.'

"'That "transmigration" that a-way,' whispers Dan Boggs to Cherokee Hall, 'ain't no fool of a word. I'll prance over an' pull it on Red Dog to-morry. Which it's shore doo to strike'em dumb.'

"'Now yere's Hoppin' Harry,' goes on the Colonel p'intin' to a thin, black little felon with long ha'r like a pony, who's strayed over from Tucson; 'I gives it out cold, meanin' tharby no offence to our Tucson friend—I gives it out cold that Hoppin' Harry used to be a t'rant'ler. First,' continyoos the Colonel, stackin' Harry up mighty scientific with his optic jest showin' over his glass, 'first I allows he's a toad. Not a horned toad, which is a valyooed beast an' has a mission; but one of these yere ornery forms of toads which infests the East. This last reptile is vulgar-sluggish, a anamile of few if any virchoos; while the horned toad, so called, come right down to cases, ain't no toad nohow. It's a false brand, an' he don't belong with the toad herd at all. The horned toad is a lizard—a broad kind o' lizard; an' as for bein' sluggish, you let him have something on his mind speshul, an' he'll shore go careerin' about plumb swift. Moreover, he don't hop, your horned toad don't, like them Eastern toads; he stands up on his toes an' paces—he's what we-all calls on the Ohio River back in my childhood's sunny hours, "a side-wheeler." Also, he's got a tail. An' as for sperit, let me tell you this:—I has a horned toad where I'm camped over by the Tres Hermanas, where I'm deer-huntin'. I wins that toad's love from the jump with hunks of bread an' salt hoss an' kindred del'cacies. He dotes on me. When time hangs heavy, I entertains myse'f with a dooel between Augustus—Augustus bein' the horned toad's name—, an' a empty sardine box for which he entertains resentments.

"'"Lay for him, Augustus!" I'd say, at the same instant battin' him in the nose with the box.

"'Of course, Augustus ain't got savey enough to realize I does it. He allows it's the box that a-way makin' malev'lent bluffs at him. An' say, pards, it would have made you proud of your country an' its starry flag to see Augustus arch himse'f for war on them o'casions.

"'Not that Augustus is malignant or evil disposed, nacheral. No, sir; I've yet to meet up with the toad who has his simple, even, gen'rous temper or lovin' heart; as trustful too, Augustus is, as the babe jest born. But like all noble nachers, Augustus is sensitive, an' he regyards them bats in the nose as insults. As I says, you-all should have seen him! He'd poise himse'f on his toes, erect the horn on his nose, same as one of these yere rhinoceroses of holy writ, an' then the way Augustus hooks an' harasses that offensive sardine box about the camp is a lesson to folks.'

"'Where's this yere Augustus now?' asks Dan Boggs, who's got all wropped up in the Colonel's narratifs.

"'Petered,' says the Colonel, an' thar's feelin's in his tones; 'pore Augustus cashes in. He's followin' me about one mornin' watchin' me hook up—we was gettin' ready to move camp—an' all inadvertent I backs the wagon onto Augustus. The hind wheel goes squar' over him an' flattens Augustus out complete. He dies with his eyes fixed on me, an' his looks says as plain as language, "Cheer up, Colonel! This yere contreetemps don't change my affections, for I knows it's a misdeal." You-all can gamble I don't do nothin' more that day but mourn.'

"'Which I should shorely say so!' says Dan Boggs, an' his voice is shakin'; 'a-losin' of a gifted horned toad like Augustus! I'd a- howled like a wolf.'

"'But as I'm sayin',' resoomes the Colonel, after comfortin' himse'f with about four fingers; 'speakin' of the transmigration of souls, I goes off wrong about Hoppin' Harry that time. I takes it, he used to be one of these yere Eastern toads on account of his gait. But I'm erroneous. Harry, who is little an' spry an' full of p'isen that a- way, used to be a t'rant'ler. Any gent who'll take the trouble to recall one of these hairy, hoppin' t'rant'ler spiders who jumps sideways at you, full of rage an' venom, is bound to be reminded partic'lar of Hoppin' Harry.'

"'What did you-all use to be yourse'f, Colonel?' asks Enright, who notices that Hoppin' Harry is beginnin' to bristle some, like he ain't pleased none with these yere revelations. 'What for a anamile was you before you're a hooman?'

"'I was a good-nachered hoss,' says the Colonel mighty confident an' prompt; 'I'm a good-nachered hoss in a country neighborhood, an' everybody rides me that wants to. However, I allows we better shift the subject some. If we-all talks about these yere insects an' reptiles a little longer, Huggins over thar—whose one weakness is he's too frank with an' puts too much confidence in his licker—will have another one of them attacks of second sight, which Peets cures him of that time, an' commence seein' a multitood of heinous visions.'

"'Of course,' says Enright, plumb p'lite, 'of course, Colonel, I can tell a whole lot about your fam'ly by jest lookin' at you; partic'lar where as at present you're about ten drinks ahead; still thar's nothin' gives me more pleasure than hearin' about the sire from the colt; an' if you won't receive it resentful, I'd ask you as to your folks back in Kaintuck.'

"'As you-all knows,' observes Colonel Sterett, 'I was foaled in Kaintucky; an' I must add, I never recalls that jestly cel'brated commonwealth with-out a sigh. Its glories, sech as they was before the war, is fast departin' away. In my yooth, thar is nothin' but a nobility in Kaintucky; leastwise in the Bloo Grass country, whereof I'm a emanation. We bred hosses an' cattle, an' made whiskey an' played kyards, an' the black folks does the work. We descends into nothin' so low as labor in them halcyon days. Our social existence is made up of weddin's, infares an' visitin' 'round; an' life in the Bloo Grass is a pleasant round of chicken fixin's an' flour doin's from one Christmas to another.'

"'Sech deescriptions,' remarks Enright with emotion an' drawin' the back of his hand across his eyes, 'brings back my yearlin' days in good old Tennessee. We-all is a heap like you Kaintucks, down our way. We was a roode, exyooberant outfit; but manly an' sincere. It's trooly a region where men is men, as that sport common to our neck of timber known as "the first eye out for a quart of whiskey" testifies to ample. Thar's my old dad! I can see him yet,' an' yere Enright closes his eyes some ecstatic. 'He was a shore man. He stood a hundred-foot without a knot or limb; could wrastle or run or jump, an' was good to cut a 4-bit piece at one hundred yards, offhand, with his old 8-squar' rifle. He never shoots squirrels, my father don't; he barks 'em. An' for to see the skin cracked, or so much as a drop of blood on one of 'em, when he picks it up, would have mortified the old gent to death.'

"'Kaintucky to a hair,' assented the Colonel, who listens to Enright plenty rapt that a-way. 'An' things is so Arcadian! If a gent has a hour off an 'feels friendly an' like minglin' with his kind, all he does is sa'nter over an' ring the town bell. Nacherally, the commoonity lets go its grip an' comes troopin' up all spraddled out. It don't know if it's a fire, it don't know if it's a fight, it don't know if it's a birth, it don't know if it's a hoss race, it don't know if it's a drink; an' it don't care. The commoonity keeps itse'f framed up perpetyooal to enjoy any one of the five, an' tharfore at the said summons comes troopin', as I say. "'My grandfather is the first Sterett who invades Kaintucky, an' my notion is that he conies curvin' in with Harrod, Kenton, Boone an' Simon Girty. No one knows wherever does he come from; an' no one's got the sand to ask, he's that dead haughty an' reserved. For myse'f, I'm not freighted to the gyards with details touchin' on my grandfather; he passes in his chips when mebby I'm ten years old, an' the only things about him I'm shore of as a child, is that he's the greatest man on earth an' owns all the land south of the Ohio river.

"'This yere grandfather I'm talkin' of,' continyoos the Colonel after ag'in refreshin' himse'f with some twenty drops, 'lives in a big house on a bluff over-lookin' the Ohio, an' calls his place "The Hill." Up across one of the big stone chimleys is carved "John Sterett," that a-way; which I mentions the same as goin' to show he ain't afeard none of bein' followed, an' that wherever he does come p'intin' out from, thar's no reward offered for his return.'

"'I ain't so shore neither,' interjects Texas Thompson. 'He might have shifted the cut an' changed his name. Sech feats is frequent down 'round Laredo where I hails from, an' no questions asked.'

"'Up on the roof of his ranch,' goes on the Colonel, for he's so immersed in them mem'ries he don't hear Texas where he rings in his theeries, 'up on the roof my grandfather has a big bell, an' the rope is brought down an' fetched through a auger hole in the side of the house, so he can lay in bed if he feels like it, an' ring this yere tocsin of his while so minded. An' you can bet he shorely rings her! Many a time an' oft as a child about my mother's knees, the sound of that ringin' comes floatin' to us where my father has his house four miles further down the river. On sech o'casions I'd up an' ask:

"'" Whatever is this yere ringin'?"

"'"Hesh, my child!" my mother would say, smotherin' my mouth with her hand, her voice sinkin' to a whisper, for as the head of the House of Sterett, every one of the tribe is plumb scared of my grandfather an' mentions him with awe. "Hesh, my child," says my mother like I relates, "that's your grandfather ringin' his bell."

"'An' from calf-time to beef-time, from the first kyard out of the box down to the turn, no one ever knows why my grandfather does ring it, for he's too onbendin' to tell of his own accord, an' as I states prior, no one on earth has got nerve an' force of character enough to ask him.

"'My own father, whose name is the same as mine, bein' Willyum Greene Sterett, is the oldest of my grandfather's chil'en. He's a stern, quiet gent, an' all us young-ones is wont to step high an' softly whenever he's pesterin' 'round. He respects nobody except my grandfather, fears nothin' but gettin' out of licker.

"'Like my grandfather up at "The Hill," my father devotes all his talents to raisin' runnin' hosses, an' the old faun would have been a heap lonesome if thar's fewer than three hundred head a nickerin' about the barns an' pastures. Shore! we has slaves too; we has niggers to a stand-still.

"'As I look r'arward to them days of my infancy, I brings to mind a staggerin' blow that neighborhood receives. A stern-wheeler sinks about two hundred yards off our landin' with one thousand bar'ls of whiskey on board. When the news of that whiskey comes flyin' inland, it ain't a case of individyooals nor neighborhoods, but whole counties comes stampedin' to the rescoo. It's no use; the boat bogs right down in the sand; in less than an hour her smoke stack is onder water. All we ever gets from the wrack is the bell, the same now adornin' a Presbyter'an church an' summonin' folks to them services. I tells you, gents, the thoughts of that Willow Run, an' we not able to save so much as a quart of it, puts a crimp in that commoonity they ain't yet outlived. It 'most drives 'em crazy; they walks them banks for months a-wringin' their hands an' wishin' the impossible.'

"'Is any one drowned?' asks Faro Nell, who comes in, a moment before, an' as usual plants herse'f clost to Cherokee Hall. 'Is thar any women or children aboard?'

"'Nell,' says the Colonel, 'I apol'gizes for my ignorance, but I'm bound to confess I don't know. Thar's no one knows. The awful fact of them one thousand bar'ls of Willow Run perishin' before our very eyes, swallows up all else, an' minor details gets lost in the shuffle an' stays lost for all time. It's a turrible jolt to the general sensibilities, an' any gent who'll go back thar yet an' look hard in the faces of them people, can see traces of that c'lamity.

"'As a child,' resoomes the Colonel, 'I'm romantic a whole lot. I'm carried away by music. My fav'rite airs is "Smith's March," an' "Cease Awhile Clarion; Clarion Wild an' Shrill." I either wants something with a sob in it 'like "Cease Awhile," or I desires War with all her horrors, same as a gent gets dished up to him in "Smith's March."

"'Also, I reads Scott's "Ivanhoe," ain longs to be a croosader, an' slay Paynims. I used to lie on the bank by the old Ohio, an' shet my eyes ag'in the brightness of the sky, an' figger on them setbacks we'd mete out to a Payaim if only we might tree one once in old Kaintucky. Which that Saracen would have shorely become the basis of some ceremonies!

"'Most like I was about thirteen years old when the Confederacy declar's herse'f a nation, elects Jeff Davis President, an' fronts up for trouble. For myse'f I concedes now, though I sort o' smothers my feelin's on that p'int at the time, seein' we-all could look right over into the state of Ohio, said state bein' heatedly inimical to rebellion an' pawin' for trouble an' rappin' its horns ag'in the trees at the mere idee; for myse'f, I say, I now concedes that I was heart an' soul with the South in them onhappy ruptures. I breathed an' lived with but one ambition, which is to tear this devoted country in two in the middle an' leave the fragments that a- way, in opposite fields. My father, stern, ca'm, c'llected, don't share the voylence of my sentiments. He took the middle ag'in the ends for his. The attitoode of our state is that of nootrality, an' my father declar'd for nootrality likewise. My grandfather is dead at the time, so his examples lost to us; but my father, sort o' projectin' 'round for p'sition, decides it would be onfair in him to throw the weight of his valor to either side, so he stands a pat hand on that embroglio, declines kyards, an' as I states is nootral. Which I know he's nootral by one thing:

"'"Willyum," he'd say that a-way when he'd notice me organizin' to go down to the village; "Willyum," he'd say. "if anybody asks you what you be, an' speshul if any of them Yankees asks you, you tell 'em that you're Union, but you remember you're secesh."

"'The Sterett fam'ly, ondoubted, is the smartest fam'ly in the South. My brother Jeff, who is five years older than me, gives proofs of this, partic'lar. It's Jeff who invents that enterprise in fishin', which for idleness, profit an' pastime, ain't never been equalled since the flood, called "Juggin' for Cats." It's Jeff, too, once when he ups an' jines the church, an' is tharafter preyed on with the fact that the church owes two hundred dollars, and that it looks like nobody cares a two-bit piece about it except jest him, who hires a merry-go-round—one of these yere contraptions with wooden hosses, an' a hewgag playin' toones in the center—from Cincinnati, sets her up on the Green in front of the church, makes the ante ten cents, an' pays off the church debt in two months with the revenoos tharof.

"'As I sits yere, a relatin' of them exploits,' an' Colonel Sterett tips the canteen for another hooker, 'as I sits yere, gents, all free an' sociable with what's, bar none, the finest body of gents that ever yanks a cork or drains a bottle, I've seen the nobility of Kaintucky—the Bloo Grass Vere-de-Veres—ride up on a blood hoss, hitch the critter to the fence, an' throw away a fortune buckin' Jeff's merry-go-round with them wooden steeds. It's as I says: that sanctooary is plumb out of debt an' on velvet—has a bank roll big enough to stopper a 2-gallon jug with—in eight weeks from the time Jeff onfurls his lay-out an' opens up his game.'

"Thar's one thing," suddenly observed my aged companion, as he eyed me narrowly, pausing in the interesting Colonel Sterett's relation concerning his family, and becoming doubly impressive with an uplifted fore-finger, "thar's one thing I desires you to fully grasp. As I reels off this yere chronicle, you-all is not to consider me as repeatin' the Colonel's words exact. I ain't gifted like the Colonel, an' my English ain't a marker to his. The Colonel carries the language quiled up an' hangin' at the saddle horn of his intelligence, like a cow puncher does his lariat. An' when he's got ready to rope an' throw a fact or two, you should oughter see him take her down an' go to work. Horn or neck or any foot you says; it's all one to the Colonel. Big or little loop, in the bresh or in the open, it's a cinch the Colonel fastens every time he throws his verbal rope. The fact he's after that a-way, is shore the Colonel's. Doc Peets informs me private that Colonel Sterett is the greatest artist, oral, of which his'try records the brand, an' you can go broke on Peets's knowin'. An' thar's other test'mony.

"'I don't lay down my hand,' says Texas Thompson, one time when him an' me is alone, 'to any gent between the Rio Grande an' the Oregon, on sizin' up a conversation. An' I'll impart to you, holdin' nothin' back, that the Colonel is shorely the limit. Merely to listen, is an embarrassment of good things, like openin' a five-hand jack-pot on a ace-full. He can even out-talk my former wife, the Colonel can, an' that esteemable lady packs the record as a conversationist in Laredo for five years before I leaves. She's admittedly the shorest shot with her mouth on that range. Talkin' at a mark, or in action, all you has to do is give the lady the distance an' let her fix her sights once, an' she'll stand thar, without a rest, an' slam observation after observation into the bull's eye till you'll be abashed. An' yet, compared to the Colonel yere, that lady stutters!'