ed field, armed with hand weapons of all sorts. Victors these men
usually were over the town roughs it was customarily theirs to handle;
but here before them was a bunch not to be trifled with, a quiet group
of thirty bronzed faces, some grinning with the anticipated joy of the
combat they loved, some grim as death itself, each affectionately
twirling a gleaming gun. One overt act on the part of the circus men,
and down they would go like ninepins and they knew it--knew it so well
that, within two minutes after they had assembled, all dodged into and
lost themselves in the throng of onlookers like rabbits darting into
their warrens.

"Mighty pore 'pology for real men, them elephant-busters," disgustedly
observed Bill Ball. "Come fellers, le's go in."

"Nix for me," spoke up Circuit; "I'm that hot in the collar over him
tryin' to rob me I've got no use for their old show. You-all go in,
an' I'll go down to Chapps' and fix my traps to hit the trail for the
railroad in the mornin'."

On the crest of a jutting bastion of the lofty escarpment that formed
the west wall of the canon, the sun lingered for a good-night kiss of
the eastern cliffs which it loved to paint every evening with all the
brilliant colors of the spectrum; it lingered over loving memories of
ancient days when every niche of the Mancos cliffs held its little
bronze-hued line of primitive worshippers, old and young, devout,
prostrate, fearful of their Red God's nightly absences, suppliant of
his return and continued largess; over memories of ceremonials and
pastimes barbaric in their elemental violence, but none more
primitively savage than the new moon looked down upon an hour later.

Supper over, on motion of Lee Skeats the Cross Canonites had adjourned
to the feed corral and gone into executive session.

Lee called the meeting to order.

"Fellers," he said, "that dod-burned show makes my back tired. A few
geezers an' gals flipfloopin' in swings an' a bunch o' dead ones on ol'
broad-backed work hosses that calls theirselves riders! Shucks! thar
hain't one o' th' lot could sit a real twister long enough to git his
seat warm; about th' second jump would have 'em clawin' sand.

"Only thing in their hull circus wo'th lookin' at is that red-maned
gal, an' she looks that sweet an' innercent she don't 'pear to rightly
belong in that thar bare-legged bunch o' she dido-cutters. They-all
must 'a mavericked her recent. Looks like a pr'ty ripe red apple