m Boston--after
the town he made out he belonged to--and let it go at that. Big game
was what he said he was looking for: and Santa Fe Charley, with Shorty
Smith and others helping, saw to it he got all he wanted and some
over--but I reckon the exercises would a-been less spirited if the
Sage-Brush Hen hadn't chipped in and played a full hand.

He was one of the sporting kind, Boston was, that turned up frequent
in the Territory in them days. Most of 'em was friends of officers at
some of the posts, with a sprinkling throwed in of sons and nephews of
directors of the road. Big game was what they all made out they come
for; and they was apt to have about as much use for big game--when
they happened to find any--as a cat has for two tails. But they seemed
to enjoy letting off ca'tridges--and used to buy what skins was in the
market to take home.

Boston turned out to be a nephew--nephews was apt to be worse'n sons
for stuck-upness--and he come in one morning in a private car hitched
onto the Denver train. He had a colored man along to cook and clean
his guns for him--he had more things to shoot with, and of more shapes
and sizes, than you ever seen in one place outside of a gun-store--and
he was dressed that nice in green corduroys, with new-fangled knives
and hunting fixings hanging all over him like he was a Christmas-tree,
he might have hired out for a show. He wasn't a bad set-up young
feller; but with them green clothes on, and being clean shaved and
wearing eye-glasses, he did look just about what he truly was.

Wood had a wire a director's nephew was coming--he was the agent, Wood
was--and orders to side-track his car and see he was took care of; and
of course Wood passed the word along to the rest of us what sort of a
game was on. But he begged so hard, Wood did, the town would hold
itself in--saying if rigs was put up on a director's nephew he was
dead sure to lose his job--we all allowed we'd give the young feller a
day or two to turn round in, anyway; and we promised Wood--who was
liked--we'd let the critter get through his hunting picnic without
putting up no rigs on him if he made any sort of a show of knowing how
to behave. Howsomedever, he didn't--and things started up, and nobody
but Boston himself to blame for it, that very first night over in the
bar-room at the Forest Queen.

He had Wood in to supper with him in his car, Boston did, the darky
cooking it; and Wood said--except it begun with their hav