knew
that every man there thought that he, who stood next to the throne, knew
all; and felt dignified by this, and dared even to look a little severe
on those who were about to ask him questions.

He had crammed a bottle of so-called "Bourbon" in his left boot, and was
just pushing into the right a "phial of wrath," when some one in the
cabin sighed, "Poor Sandy!"

Still Limber Tim went on pushing the phial of wrath into his gum boot
as well as he could with his stiffened fingers.

Then a man came up sharply out of the crowd, and throwing a big, heavy
bag of gold dust, as fat as a pet squirrel, down on the counter,
proposed to raise a "puss" for Sandy.

This was too much. Limber Tim raised his head, and slipping as fast as
he could through the crowd for the door, said, back over his shoulder--

"It ain't Sandy at all. It's Bunker Hill. It's the gals. The gals is
almost tuckered."

There was the confusion of Babel in the Howling Wilderness. The strange
and contradictory accounts that had come down from the Widow's--their
shrine, the little log house that to them was as a temple, a city set
upon a hill--were anything but satisfactory. The men began to get
nervous, and then they began to drink, and then they began to dispute
again, and then they began to bet high and recklessly who it was that
had cut his foot.

"Got it all right now," said poor Limber Tim to himself as he made his
way up the trail as fast as possible, with the two bottles in the legs
of his great gum boots for safe carriage. "Got it all right now! That's
it. Bunker Hill cut her foot or shot her hand with that darned
derringer, or something of the kind. That's it, that's where the blood
came from, that's why she's tuckered--that's what's the matter." And so
saying and musing to himself, he reached his post, uncorked the phial of
wrath, as it was called, looked in at the contents, turned it up towards
the sun as if it had been a sort of telescope, and smacking his lips
felt slightly confirmed in his opinion. He also resolved to ask Sandy,
like a man, what the devil was up the moment he appeared.

Again the door flew open, Sandy flew out, rushed over the fence, took
the Bourbon from the trembling hand of Limber Tim, and before he could
get his wits together had disappeared and banged the door behind him.

Limber Tim did not like this silent-dignity business a bit. "Lookee
here!" he said, as he again turned the telescope up to the sun, and then
lo