e sixty miles to get to this
spot at this hour of this day. It was here she said 'good-bye,' an' then
she walked slowly around the rock with her flowers held tight, an' the
wind ripplin' that lock of hair, just above her right temple, it
was--an' then--she was gone." The man's eyes dropped to the ground. A
brilliantly striped beetle climbed laboriously to the top of a weed
stem, spread his wings in a clumsy effort, and fell to the ground. The
cowboy laughed: "A hell of a lot of us that would like to fly has to
crawl," he said, and stooping picked a tiny flower, stared at it for a
moment, breathed deeply of its fragrance, and thrust it into the band of
his hat. Reaching for his reins, he swung into the saddle and once more
his eyes sought the painted bad lands with their background of purple
mountains. "Prettiest place in the world, I reckon--to look at. Mica
flashin' like diamonds, red rocks an' pink ones, white alkali patches,
an' black cool-lookin' mud-cracks--an' when you get there--poison water,
rattlesnakes, chokin' hot dust, horse-thieves, an' the white bones of
dead things! Everything's like that. Come on, old top horse, you an'
I'll shove on to Timber City. 'Tain't over a mile, an' when we get
there--! Say boy, little old unsuspectin' Timber City is goin' to stage
an orgy. We don't aim to pull off no common sordid drunk--not us. What
we'll precipitate is goin' to be a classic--a jamboree of sorts, a
bacchanalian cataclysm, aided an' abetted by what local talent an'
trimmin's the scenery affords. Shake a leg, there! An' we'll forget the
bones, an' the poison, an' the dust, an' with the discriminatin'
perception of a beltful of rollickin' ferments, we'll enjoy the pink,
an' the purple, an' the red. Tomorrow, it'll be different but as Old Bat
says 'Wat de hell?'"

Thus adjured, the horse picked his way down the little creek and a few
minutes later swung into the trail that stretched dusty white toward the
ugly little town whose wooden buildings huddled together a mile to the
southward.

Before the door of Red Front saloon the Texan drew up in a swirl of
dust, slid from the saddle, and entered. The bartender flashed an
appraising glance, and greeted him with professional cordiality, the
ritual of which, included the setting out of a bottle and two glasses
upon the bar. "Dry?" he invited as he slid the bottle toward the
newcomer.

"Middlin'," assented the Texan, as he poured a liberal potion. The other
helped him