ut into a lane behind so the lead can go through. When the Bob-cat's
ready, his cousin, a buck whose name is Little Feather, walks to the
front of the blanket an' comes down careful with his Winchester on the
white mark over the Bob-cat's heart. Thar's a moment's silence as the
Bob-cat's cousin runs his eye through the sights; thar's a flash an' a
hatful of gray smoke; the white spot turns red with blood; an' then the
Bob-cat falls along on his face as soft as a sack of corn.

"What becomes of the Lance? It's two weeks later when that scientist
is waited on by a delegation of Osages. They reminds him that
Sunbright has two sisters, the same bein' now widows by virchoo of the
demise of that egreegious Black Cloud. Also, the Black Cloud was rich;
his teepee was sumptuous, an' he's left a buckskin coat with ivory elk
teeth sewed onto it plenty as stars at night. The coat is big
medicine; moreover thar's the milk-white big medicine bronco with red
eyes. The Osage delegation puts forth these trooths while the Lance
sets cross-laiged on a b'arskin an' smokes willow bark with much
dignity. In the finish, the Osage outfit p'ints up to the fact that
their tribe is shy a medicine man, an' a gent of the Lance's
accomplishments who can charm anamiles an' lame broncos will be a
mighty welcome addition to the Osage body politic. The Lance lays down
his pipe at this an' says, 'It is enough!' An' the next day he sallies
over an' weds them two relicts of Black Cloud an' succeeds to that dead
necromancer's estate an' both at one fell swoop. The two widows
chuckles an' grins after the manner of ladies, to get a new husband so
swift; an' abandonin' his lodge on the Polecat the Lance sets up his
game at Greyhoss, an' onless he's petered, he's thar dealin' it yet."

CHAPTER VIII.

Tom and Jerry; Wheelers.

"Obstinacy or love, that a-way, when folks pushes 'em to excess, is shore
bad medicine. Which I'd be aheap loath to count the numbers them two
attribootes harries to the tomb. Why, son, it's them sentiments that
kills off my two wheel mules, Tom an' Jerry."

The Old Cattleman appeared to be on the verge of abstract discussion. As
a metaphysician, he was not to be borne with. There was one method of
escape; I interfered to coax the currents of his volubility into other
and what were to me, more interesting channels.

"Tell me of the trail; or a story about animals," I urged. "You were
saying recently that perfect