s slow an' delib'rate as
trees; Bloojacket lookin' on with onwinkin' eye, while the red-blanket
bucks plays along an' never a whisper of interest.

"'Which this yere pistol overshoots a bit!' says the Caldwell beauty, as
she runs her eye along the sights. 'I must aim low or I'll shore make
ragged work.'

"Bloojacket hears her, but offers no retort; he stands moveless as a
stachoo. Thar's a flash an' a crash an' a cloud of bloo smoke; the
aroused bronco makes a standin' jump of twenty foot. The Caldwell beauty
keeps her saddle, an' with never a swerve or curve goes whirlin' away up
the brown, burnt August trail, Bloojacket lays thar on his face; an'
thar's a bullet as squar' between the eyes as you-all could set your
finger-tip. Which he's dead--dead without a motion, while the poker
bucks plays ca'mly on."

My venerable friend came to a full stop. After a respectful pause, I
ventured an inquiry.

"And the Caldwell beauty?" I said.

"It ain't a week when she's ag'in the star of that Caldwell hurdygurdy
where she ropes up Hardrobe first. Her laugh is as loud an' as' free,
her beauty as profoundly dazzlin' as before; she swings through twenty
quadrilles in a evenin' from 'Bow-to-your-partners' to
'All-take-a-drink-at-the-bar'; an' if she's preyed on by them Osage
tragedies you shore can't tell it for whiskey, nor see if for powder an'
paint."

CHAPTER XX.

Colonel Coyote Clubbs.

"Which as a roole," said the Old Cattleman, "I speaks with deference
an' yields respects to whatever finds its source in nacher, but this
yere weather simply makes sech attitoode reedic'lous, an' any encomiums
passed thar-on would sound sarkastic." Here my friend waved a
disgusted hand towards the rain-whipped panes and shook his head.
"Thar's but one way to meet an' cope successful with a day like this,"
he ran on, "an' that is to put yourse'f in the hands of a joodicious
barkeep--put yourse'f in his hands an' let him pull you through.
Actin' on this idee I jest despatches my black boy Tom for a pitcher of
peach an' honey, an', onless you-all has better plans afoot, you might
as well camp an' wait deevelopments, same as old man Wasson does when
he's treed by the b'ar."

Promptly came the peach and honey, and with its appearance the pelting
storm outside lost power to annoy. My companion beamingly did me
honour in a full glass. After a moment fraught of silence and peach
and honey, and possibly, too, from some notion of