up, knowing they'll
fight every time he sells them whiskey. Two of these last night
were bad cut in this rumpus."

"Yes; and he'd ought to be sent up for life for selling it to white men,
too--the kind he sells." This was Sandy Sawtelle, speaking as one who
knew and with every sign of conviction. "It sure is enterprising
whiskey. Three drinks of it make a decent man want to kill his little
golden-haired baby sister with an axe. Say, here's a good one--lemme
tell you! I remember the first time, about three, four years ago--"

The speaker was interrupted--it seemed to me with intentional rudeness.
One man hurriedly wished to know who did the cutting last night;
another, if the wounded would recover; and a third, if Pete, an aged red
vassal of our own ranch, had been involved. Each of the three flashed a
bored glance at Sandy as he again tried for speech:

"Well, as I was saying, I remember the first time, about three, four
years ago--"

"If old Pete was down there I bet his brother-in-law did most of the
knifework," put in Buck Devine firmly.

It was to be seen that they all knew what Sandy remembered the first
time and wished not to hear it again. Others of them now sought to
stifle the memoir, while Sandy waited doggedly for the tide to ebb. I
gathered that our Pete had not been one of the restive convives, he
being known to have spent a quiet home evening with his mahala and their
numerous descendants, in their camp back of the wood lot; I also
gathered that Pete's brother-in-law had committed no crime since Pete
quit drinking two years before. There was veiled mystery in these
allusions to the brother-in-law of Pete. It was almost plain that the
brother-in-law was a lawless person for whose offenses Pete had more
than once been unjustly blamed. I awaited details; but meantime--

"Well, as I was saying, I remember the first time, about three, four
years ago--"

Sandy had again dodged through a breach in the talk, quite as if nothing
had happened. Buck Devine groaned as if in unbearable anguish. The
others also groaned as if in unbearable anguish. Only the veterinary and
I were polite.

"Oh, let him get it offen his chest," urged Buck wearily. "He'll perish
if he don't--having two men here that never heard him tell it." He
turned upon the raconteur, with a large sweetness of manner: "Excuse me,
Mr. Sawtelle! Pray do go on with your thrilling reminiscence. I could
just die listening to you. I believe