"Boys," cut in Bill Ball, the dean of the outfit's shooters-up of town
and shooters-out of dance-hall lights; "boys, I allow it 's up to me to
'pologize to Circuit. Ef I wasn't such a damned o'nery kiyote I'd o'
caught on befo'. But I hain't been runnin' with th' drags o' th' she
herd so long that I can't 'preciate th' feelin's o' a feller that's got
a good gal stuck on him, like Circuit. Ef I had one, you-all kin
gamble yer _alce_ all bets would be off with them painted dance-hall
beer jerkers, an' it would be out in th' brush fo' me while th' corks
was poppin', gals cussin', red-eye flowin', an' chips rattlin'. That
thar little ol' kid has my 'spects, an' ef airy o' th' Blue Mountain
outfit tries to string him 'bout not runnin' with them oreide
propositions, I'll hand 'em lead till my belt's empty."

Ensued a long silence; at length, by common consent the inquest was
adjourned, and the members of the jury returned to the bunk-room, quiet
and solemn as men entering a death chamber. There at the table before
the guttering candle still sat Circuit, his hair now badly tousled, his
upper lip blackened with pencil lead, his brows more deeply puckered,
his entire underlip apparently swallowed, the table littered with
rudely scrawled sheets.

Slipping softly to their respective bunks, the boys peeled and climbed
into their blankets. And there they all lay, wide-awake but silent,
for an hour or two, some watching Circuit curiously, some enviously,
others staring fixedly into the dying fire until from its dull-glowing
embers there rose for some visions of bare-footed, nut-brown,
fustian-clad maids, and for others the finer lines of silk and lace
draped figures, now long since passed forever out of their lives.
Those longest awake were privileged to witness Circuit's final offering
at the shrine of his love.

His letter finished, enclosed, addressed, and stamped, he kissed it and
laid it aside, apparently all unconscious of the presence of his mates,
as he had been since beginning his letter. Then he drew from beneath
his shirt something none of them had seen before, a buckskin bag, out
of which he pulled a fat blank memorandum book, _into which he
proceeded to copy, in as small a hand as he could write, every line of
his sweetheart's letters_. Later they learned that this bag and its
contents never left Circuit's body, nestled always over his heart,
suspended by a buckskin thong!

Out of the close intimacies cow-ca