tre yelps, the bloo
cayouse goes over on its head an' neck an' then falls dead on its side.
The lead which only smashes the spectre's knee to splinters goes plumb
through the pony's heart.

"As Peets foresees, the ghost ain't none other than the wise little
Jose Miguel, schoolmaster, who's up on drugs an' chemicals. The bloo
glimmer is phosphorus; an' the fire eyes is two of these little old
lamps like miners packs in their caps.

"Enright an' Peets strolls up; this Miguel is groanin' an' mournin' an'
cryin' 'Marie, Madre de Dios!' When he sees who downs him, he drags
himse'f to Enright an' begs a heap abject for his life. With that,
Enright silently lets down the hammer of his rifle.

"Peets when the sun comes up enjoys himse'f speshul with the
opp'ration. Peets is fond of ampytations, that a-way, and he lops off
said limb with zest an' gusto.

"'I shore deplores, Jose,' says Peets, 'to go shortenin' up a fellow
scientist like this. But thar's no he'pin' it; fate has so decreed.
Also, as some comfort to your soul, I'll explain to Sam Enright how you
won't ride much when I gets you fairly trimmed. Leastwise, after I'm
done prunin' you, thar won't be nothin' but these yere woman's saddles
that you'll fit, an' no gent, be he white or be he Greaser, can work
cattle from a side-saddle.' An' Peets, hummin' a roundelay, cuts
merrily into the wounded member."

CHAPTER XI.

Tucson Jennie's Correction.

"Doc Peets, son," said the Old Cattleman, while his face wore the look of
decent gravity it ever donned when that man of medicine was named, "Doc
Peets has his several uses. Aside from him bein' a profound sharp on
drugs, an' partic'lar cowboy drugs, he's plenty learned in a gen'ral way,
an' knows where every kyard lays in nacher's deck, from them star-flecked
heavens above to the earth beneath, an'--as Scripter puts it--to the
'waters onder the earth.' It's a good scheme to have a brace of highly
eddicated gents, same as Colonel Sterett an' Doc Peets, sort o' idlin'
'round your camp. Thar's times when a scientist, or say, a lit'rary
sport comes bluffin' into Wolfville; an' sech folks is a mighty sight too
deep for Boggs an' me an' Tutt. If we're left plumb alone with a band of
them book-read shorthorns like I deescribes, you-all sees yourse'f,
they're bound to go spraddlin' East ag'in, an' report how darkened
Wolfville is. But not after they locks horns with Doc Peets or Colonel
Sterett. Wherefore, whe