e artistic gun-player than Moore in town, onless it's
Cherokee, an' mebby Doc Peets, who's a heap soon with a derringer. As
the ponies flash by, Moore's six-shooter barks three times. Two ponies
goes rollin'; the third--it's Turkey Track's--continyoos cavortin'
down the street an' out of town. Turkey Track never pulls up nor looks
back. The last we sees of him is when he's two miles away, an' a
swell rises up behind him an' hides him from view.

"The G-bar boy, an' him from the Four-J outfit, hits the grass twenty
feet ahead of their ponies, like a roll of blankets chucked out of a
wagon, an' after bumpin' an' tumblin' along for a rod or so, an' all
mighty condoosive to fractures an' dislocations, they flattens out
reespective same as a couple of cancelled postage stamps. Shore, the
fall jolts the savvy plumb out of 'em.

"Bein' they're stretched out an' passive, Moore collects 'em an' sops
'em up an' down in the water trough for mebby it's fifteen minutes.
Which they're reesus'tated an' reeproved at one an' the same time.
When them yooths comes to, they're a model to angels. To be shore,
their intellects don't shine out at first none like the sun at noon,
but continyoos blurred for hours. Even as late as the weddin' of
Turkey Track with the Mockin' Bird--an' that ain't for all of eight
weeks--the G-bar boy informs Boggs confidenshul, as they're takin' a
little licker all sociable, that speakin' mental he's as yet a heap in
eeclipse.

"The maiden name of the Mockin' Bird is Loocinda Gildersleeve, but
pop'lar pref'rence allers sticks to her stage title. She's a fav'rite
at the Bird Cage Op'ry House, at which nursery of the drammy she's
been singin' off an' on for somethin' like three years. She's a
shore-enough singer, too, the Mockin' Bird is. None of your yeepin's
an' peepin's, none of your mice squeaks an' tea-kettle tones an' cub
coyote yelps. Which she's got a round, meelod'yous bellow like a hound
in full cry, an' while she's singin' thar ain't a wolf'll open his
mouth within a mile of town. Which them anamiles is plumb abashed, the
Mockin' Bird outholdin' 'em to that degree.

"You-all don't hear no sech singin' in the East. Thar ain't room; an'
moreover the East's too timid. For myse'f, an' I ain't got no y'ear
for music, them top notes of the Mockin' Bird, like the death yell of
a mountain lion, is cap'ble of givin' me the fantods; while the way
she hands out 'Home, Sweet Home' an' 'Suwannee River,' an' her v