he's shore a beauty! an' whenever she throws the
lariat of her loveliness that a-way at a gent, she's due to fasten.

"It's a month followin' this division of the house of Hardrobe when I
runs up on him in person. I encounters him in one of the little jim-crow
restauraws you-all finds now an' then in the Injun country. Hardrobe an'
me shakes, an' then he camps down ag'in at a table where he's feedin' on
fried antelope an' bakin' powder biscuit.

"I'm standin' at the counter across the room. Jest as I turns my back,
thar's the crack! of a rifle to the r'ar of the j'int, an' Hardrobe
pitches onto the floor as dead as ever transpires in that tribe. In the
back door, with one arm in a sling, an' a gun that still smokes, ca'm an'
onmoved like Injuns allers is, stands Bloojacket.

"'My hand is forced,' he says, as he passes me his gun; 'it's him or me!
One of us wore the death-mark an' had to go.'

"'Couldn't you-all have gone with Crook ag'in?' I says. 'Which you don't
have to infest this yere stretch of country. Thar's no hobbles or
sidelines on you; none whatever!'

"Bloojacket makes no reply, an' his copper face gets expressionless an'
inscrootable. I can see through, however; an' it's the hobbles of that
Caldwell beauty's innocence that's holdin' him.

"Bloojacket walks over to where Hardrobe's layin' dead an' straightens
him round--laigs an' arms--an' places his big white cow hat over his
face. Thar's no more sign of feelin', whether love or hate, in the eyes
of Bloojacket while he performs these ceremonies than if Hardrobe's a
roll of blankets. But thar's no disrespects neither; jest a great
steadiness. When he has composed him out straight, Bloojacket looks at
the remainder for mebby a minute. Then he shakes his head.

"'He was a great man,' says Bloojacket, p'intin' at his dead father, with
his good hand; 'thar's no more like him among the Osages.'

"Tharupon Bloojacket wheels on the half-breed who runs the deadfall an'
who's standin' still an' scared, an' says:

"'How much does he owe?' Then he pays Hardrobe's charges for antelope
steaks an' what chuck goes with it, an' at the close of these fiscal
op'rations, remarks to the half-breed--who ain't sayin' no more'n he can
he'p,--'Don't touch belt nor buckle on him; you-all knows me!' An' I can
see that half-breed restauraw party is out to obey Bloojacket's mandates.

"Bloojacket gives himse'f up to the Osages an' is thrown loose on p'role.
But B