wanders to an' fro, boastin' an' braggin' in the
mushiest way about his wife. Moreover--an' this trenches on
eediotcy--he goes out of his path to make a pard of the postmaster,
an' has that deebauchee over to his shack evenin's.

"Dead Shot even begins publicly singin' the praises of this office
holder.

"'Which it's this a-way,' he says; 'what with him bein' book-read an'
a sport who's seen foreign lands, he's company for my wife. She
herse'f's eddicated to a feather-edge; an', nacherally, that's what
gives 'em so much in common.'

"Thar's all the same a note in Dead Shot's voice that's like the echo
of a groan. It looks, too, as though it sets fire to Texas, who jumps
up as if he's stung by a trant'ler.

"'Come,' he says, grabbin' Boggs by the shoulder.

"Texas has Boggs drug half-way to the door, before Enright can head
'em off.

"'Whar to?' demands Enright; an' then adds, 'don't you-all boys go
nigh that post office.'

"'All right,' says Texas final, but gulpin' a little; 'since it's you
who says so, Sam, we won't. Me an' Dan yere'll merely take a little
_passear_ as far as the graveyard, by way of reecoverin' our sperits
an' to get the air. I'll shore blow up if obleeged to listen to that
Dead Shot any longer.'

"'I sees it in his eye,' Enright explains in a low tone to Peets, as
he resoomes his cha'r; 'Texas is simply goin' to bend his gun over
that letter man's head.'

"'How often has I told you, Dan,' asks Texas, after they gets headed
for Boot Hill, an' Texas has regained his aplomb, 'that women is a
brace game?'

"'Not all women,' Boggs objects; 'thar's Nell.'

"'Shore; Nell!' Texas consents. 'Sech as her has all of the honor an'
honesty of a Colt's-45. A gent can rely on the Nellie brand, same as
he can on his guns. But Nellie's one in one thousand. Them other nine
hundred an' ninety-nine'll deal you the odd-kyard, Dan, every time.'

"When Texas an' Boggs arrives at Boot Hill, Texas goes seelectin'
about, same as if he's searchin' out a site for a grave. At last he
finds a place whar thar's nothin' but mesquite, soapweed an' rocks,
it's that ornery:

"'Yere's whar we plants him,' says Texas; 'off yere, by himse'f, like
as if he's so much carrion.'

"'Who you talkin' about?' asks Boggs, some amazed.

"'Who?' repeats Texas; 'whoever but that postmaster? Dead Shot's got
to get him soon or late. An' followin' the obsequies, thar ain't goin'
to be no night gyards neither. Which if them coyote