f America.'

"'And I'm much obliged to 'em,' says I. 'It's a poor man that
wouldn't be patriotic with a country that's saved his life. I'll
drink to the Stars and Bars whenever there's a flagstaff and a glass
convenient. But where,' says I, 'are the rescuing troops? If there
was a gun fired or a shell burst, I didn't hear it.'

"Doc Millikin raises up and points out the window with his flute at
the banana-steamer loading with fruit.

"'Yank,' says he, 'there's a steamer that's going to sail in the
morning. If I was you, I'd sail on it. The Confederate Government's
done all it can for you. There wasn't a gun fired. The negotiations
were carried on secretly between the two nations by the purser of
that steamer. I got him to do it because I didn't want to appear in
it. Twelve thousand dollars was paid to the officials in bribes to
let you go.'

"'Man!' says I, sitting down hard--'twelve thousand--how will I
ever--who could have--where did the money come from?'

"'Yazoo City,' says Doc Millikin: 'I've got a little saved up
there. Two barrels full. It looks good to these Colombians. 'Twas
Confederate money, every dollar of it. Now do you see why you'd
better leave before they try to pass some of it on an expert?'

"'I do,' says I.

"'Now let's hear you give the password,' says Doc Millikin.

"'Hurrah for Jeff Davis!' says I.

"'Correct,' says Doc. 'And let me tell you something: The next tune
I learn on my flute is going to be "Yankee Doodle." I reckon there's
some Yanks that are not so pizen. Or, if you was me, would you try
"The Red, White, and Blue"?'"

XXII

THE LONESOME ROAD

Brown as a coffee-berry, rugged, pistoled, spurred, wary,
indefeasible, I saw my old friend, Deputy-Marshal Buck Caperton,
stumble, with jingling rowels, into a chair in the marshal's outer
office.

And because the court-house was almost deserted at that hour, and
because Buck would sometimes relate to me things that were out of
print, I followed him in and tricked him into talk through knowledge
of a weakness he had. For, cigarettes rolled with sweet corn husk
were as honey to Buck's palate; and though he could finger the
trigger of a forty-five with skill and suddenness, he never could
learn to roll a cigarette.

It was through no fault of mine (for I rolled the cigarettes tight
and smooth), but the upshot of some whim of his own, that instead
of to an Odyssey of the chaparral, I listened to--a dissertation
upon matri