the trail
of a father an' son who gives themse'fs up to one another like this
Hardrobe an' his Bloojacket boy. I can see that Bloojacket regyards old
Hardrobe like he's the No'th Star; an' as for Hardrobe himse'f, he can't
keep his eyes off that child of his. You'd have had his life long before
he'd let you touch a braid of Bloojacket's long ha'r. Both of 'em's
plenty handsome for Injuns; tall an' lean an' quick as coyotes, with
hands an' feet as little as a woman's.

"While I don't go pryin' 'round this Hardrobe's private affairs--savages
is mighty sensitive of sech matters--I learns, incidental, that Hardrobe
is fair rich. He's rich even for Osages; an' they're as opulent savages
as ever makes a dance or dons a feather. Later, I finds out that
Hardrobe's squaw--Bloojacket's mother--is dead.

"'See thar?' says Hardrobe one day. We're in the southern border of the
Osage country on the Grayhoss at the time, an' he p'ints to a heap of
stones piled up like a oven an' chimley, an' about four foot high. I
saveys thar's a defunct Osage inside. You-all will behold these little
piles of burial stones on every knoll an' hill in the Osage country.
'See thar,' says this Hardrobe, p'intin'. 'That's my squaw. Mighty good
squaw once; but heap dead now.'

"Then Hardrobe an' Bloojacket rides over an' fixes a little flag they've
got in their war-bags to a pole which sticks up'ards outen this tomb,
flyin' the ensign as Injuns allers does, upside down.

"It's six months later, mebby--an' it's now the hard luck begins--when I
hears how Hardrobe weds a dance-hall girl over to Caldwell. This
maiden's white; an' as beautiful as a flower an' as wicked as a
trant'ler. Hardrobe brings her to his ranch in the Osage country.

"The next tale I gets is that Bloojacket, likewise, becomes a victim to
the p'isenous fascinations of this Caldwell dance-hall damsel, an' that
him an' Hardrobe falls out; Hardrobe goin' on the warpath an' shootin'
Bloojacket up a lot with a Winchester. He don't land the boy at that;
Bloojacket gets away with a shattered arm. Also, the word goes that
Hardrobe is still gunnin' for Bloojacket, the latter havin' gone onder
cover some'ers by virchoo of the injured pinion.

"As Colonel Sterett says, these pore aborigines experiences bad luck the
moment ever they takes to braidin' in their personal destinies with a
paleface. I don't blame 'em none neither. I sees this Caldwell seraph
on one o'casion myse'f; s