llustrated
papers and magazines. About my fourth return after more horses,--I was
mighty near one of the family by that time,--when we were all seated
around the fire one night, the women poring over the papers and admiring
the pictures, the old man inquired what the news was over in the parish
where I had recently been. The only thing that I could remember was the
suicide of a prominent man. After explaining the circumstances, I went
on to say that some little bitterness arose over his burial. Owing to
his prominence it was thought permission would be given to bury him
in the churchyard. But it seems there was some superstition about
permitting a self-murderer to be buried in the same field as decent
folks. It was none of my funeral, and I didn't pay overmuch attention
to the matter, but the authorities refused, and they buried him just
outside the grounds, in the woods.

"My host and I discussed the matter at some length. He contended that if
the man was not of sound mind, he should have been given his little
six feet of earth among the others. A horse salesman has to be a good
second-rate talker, and being anxious to show off before the girl, I
differed with her father. The argument grew spirited yet friendly, and I
appealed to the women in supporting my view. My hostess was absorbed
at the time in reading a sensational account of a woman shooting her
betrayer. The illustrations covered a whole page, and the girl was
simply burning, at short range, the shirt from off her seducer. The old
lady was bogged to the saddle skirts in the story, when I interrupted
her and inquired, 'Mother, what do you think ought to be done with a
man who commits suicide?' She lowered the paper just for an instant, and
looking over her spectacles at me replied, 'Well, I think any man who
would do THAT ought to be made to support the child.'"

No comment was offered. Our wrangler arose and strolled away from the
fire under the pretense of repicketing his horse. It was nearly time
for the guards to change, and giving the last watch orders to point
the herd, as they left the bed-ground in the morning, back on an angle
towards the trail, I prepared to turn in. While I was pulling off my
boots in the act of retiring, Clay Zilligan rode in from the herd to
call the relief. The second guard were bridling their horses, and as
Zilligan dismounted, he said to the circle of listeners, "Didn't I tell
you fellows that there was another herd just ahead