— —
EE CE ES MAE ES EE RR
|
Bellefonte, Pa., July 12, 1929.
Er —————————————————————
THAT NIGHT HE DIED.
That day he passed
A little child
And, as he passed it,
Stopped and smiled,
He bought his paper
At the square.
And left an extra
Penny there,
And then went on
And quite forgot
The paper-woman
And the tot.
For many duties
Business brings,
Yes, greater matters,
Larger things.
. That night he died
5 And people said,
Who heard the news,
“So Smith is dead.”
And Smith was troubled
As he lay
Within his little
House next day:
His gold was dust,
His fame was dim,
He had no gifts
To take with him.
j “What chance,” thought he,
‘“‘Has one who stands
; Before God's gate
i With empty hands?”
} At last he stood
5 Before the gate,
As all must stand,
And all must wait,
And then its mighty
‘ Hinges swung,
i And ‘‘welcome’ all
The angels sung.
Was it not written
In the Book,
Where Peter, God
And all might look?
Two things they found
Recorded there—
A baby’s tear,
A woman's pray'r.
r———— eee ——
AT THE SIGN OF THE LAST
CHANGE
More familiar faces than I had
hoped to see were there when I
came in after leaving my horse at
the stable. Would I eat anything?
Henry asked. Not until breakfast, I
said. I had supped at Lost Soldier.
Would I join the game? Not to-
night; but would they mind if I sat
and watched them till I felt sleepy?
It was too early to go to bed. And
sitting here again seemed very nat-
ural.
“Does it, now?” said Stirling.
“You look kind of natural yourself.”
“Glad I do. It must be five years
since last time.”
“Six,” said James Work. “But I
would have known you anywhere.”
“What sort of meal did he set for
you?” Marshal inquired. =~
“At Lost Soldier? Fried beef, bis-
cuits, coffee, and excellent onions.” |
other. And here in this place, at the
poker table, the ghost still clung to |
the world of the sage-brush, where it
had lived headlong joys.
I watched the graybeards going on
with this game that had outlived |
many a player, had often paused dur-
ing bloodshed, and resumed as often.
no matter who had been carried out. |
They played without zest, winning
'“Last Chance,”
:
or |
More of the fron-
‘ier life could hardly be told in four
| words. They were quite as revealing
of the spirit of an age and people as
Goat and Compasses.
That is what I thought as I sat
there looking on at my old acquain-
tances over their listless game. It
was still too early to go to bed, and
what else was there to do? What a
losing little, with now and then s lot of old tunes Jed Goodland remem-
friendly word to me. |
They had learned to tolerate me
when I had come among them first;
not because I ever grew skilled in
what they did, either in the saddle or |
with a gun, but always had come
back to lead it with them, in my
tenderfoort way.
Did they often think of their van-
ished prosperity? Or did they try to
forget that, and had they succeeded?
bered!
“Why, where's your clock, Henry?”
I asked.
Henry scratched his head. “Why,”
he meditated—“why, I guess 1t was
last January.”
“Did she get shot up again?”
Henry slowly shook his head. “This
town is not what it was. I guess
you saw the last shooting-up she
got. She just quit on me one day.
Something in them seemed quenched | Yes; January. Winding of her up
—but they were all in their fifties | didn’t do nothing to her. It was Lee
now; they had been in their twenties
when I knew them first.
My first sight of James Work was |
on a night at the Cheyenne Club. He
sat at the head of a dinner-table with
some twenty men as his guests. They
drank champagne and they sang.
Work’s cattle in those days earned ;
him twenty per cent. Had he not |
overstayed his market in the fatal
years, he could be giving dinners still.
As with him, so with the others in
that mild poker game.
Fortune, after romping with them,
had romped off somewhere else.
What filled their hours, what filled
their minds, in these days of empti
ness?
So I sat and watched them. How
many times had I arrived for the
night and done so!’ They drank very
little. They spoke very little. They
had been so used to each other for so |
long! I had seen that pile of news- |
papers and magazines where the man |
was reading grow and spread and lit-
ter the back of the room since I was
twenty.
It was a joke that Henry never
could bring himself to throw any-
thing away. ;
“I suppose,” I said to him now, as
I pointed to the dusty accumulation,
“that would be up to the ceiling if
you didn’t light your stove every win-
ter with some of it.”
Henry nodded and chuckled as he
picked up his hand.
The man reading at the back of
the room lifted his magazine. “This
is October, 1885,” he said, holding the
shabby cover towards us.
“Find any startling news, Gil-
bert 2”
“Why, there's a pretty good thing,”
said the man. “Did you know sign-
boards have been used hundreds ard
hundreds of years? ’'Way back of
Columbus.”
“I don’t think I have ever thought
about them,” said Henry.
“Come to think about it,” said
James Work, “sign-boards must have
started whenever hotels or saloons
started, ow hatever they called such
places at first.” !
“It goes away back, said the read- !
er. “It’s a good piece.”
“Come to think about it,” said
‘James Work, “men must have trav- |
eled before they had houses; and af-:
noticed she had quit. So I didn’t get
a new one. Any more than I have
fresh onions. Too much trouble to
mend the ditch.”
“Where's your Chink tonight?” I
inquired. Lee was another old ac-
quaintance; he had cooked many
meals and made my bed often sea-
son after season, when I had lodged
‘here for the night.
“I let Lee go—let’'s see—I guess
that must have been last April
Business is not what it used to be.”
“Then you do everything yourself
now ?”
“Why, yes; when there's anything
to do.”
“Boys don’t seem as lively as they
used to be,” said Work.
“There are no boys,” said Henry.
“Just people.”
This is what Henry had to say. It
was said by the bullet holes in the
wall landmarks patterning the shape
of the clock which had hung there
till it stopped going last January.
It was said by the empty shelves be-
neath the clock and behind the bar.
It was said by the empty bottles
which Henry had not yet thrown out.
These occupied half one shelf. Two
or three full bottles stood in the mid-
dle of the lowest shelf, looking lonely.
In one of them the cork had been
drawn and could be pulled out by the
fingers again, should anyone call for
a drink,
“It was Buck Seabrook shot up
your clock last time, wasn’t it, Hen-
ry?” asked Marshal. “You knew
Buck?’ he said to me; and I nodded.
“Same night as that young puncher
got the letter he’d been asking for
every mail day,” said Work.
“Opened it in the stage office.” con-
tinued Marshal, “drew his gun and
blew out his brains right there. I
guess you heard about him ?” ne said
to me again; and I nodded.
“No,” Henry corrected. “Not
there.” He pointed at the ceiling.
He was sleeping in num-'
“Upstairs.
ber four. He left no directions.”
“I liked that kid,” said Stirling, |
“Nice quiet .
who had been silent.
well-behaved kid. A good rope:r.”
“Anybody know what was in the
letter 7” asked Work.
< “It was from a girl,” said Henry.
“I thought may be there would be
something in it demanding action.
“Old onions of course?” said Hen- ter they had houses travel must have Lhere was nothing beyond the action
“Cooked.”
“No. Fresh from his garden. !
Young ones.” |
“So he's got a garden still!” mused
Henry.
.“Who’s running Lost Soldier these
days?” inquired Stirling.
~ “That oldest half-bred son of
Toothpick,” said Marshal. “Any
folks to supper but you?”
“Why, yes. Six or seven. Bound
for the new oil-field on Red Spider.”
“Travel is brisk down in that val-
ley,” said Work. :
“I didn't know the stage had stop-
ped running through here,” said I.
- “Didn’t you? Why, that’s a mat-
ter of years now. There's no oil up
this way. In fact, there's nothing up
this way any more.”
They had made room for me, they
had included me in their company.
Only two others were not in the
game. One sat in the back of the
room, leaning over something that he
was reading, never looking up from
it. He was the only one I had not
Seen before, but he was at home here
quite evidently. Except when he
turned a page, which might have
been once every five minutes, he
hardly made a movement.
He was a rough fellow, wearing |
the beard of another day; and if read-
ing was a habit with him it was a
slow process, and his lips moved in
silent pronunciation of each syllable
as it came. Jed Goodland sat off by |
the kitchen door with his fiddle. Now
and then he lightly picked or bowed |
some fragment of tune, like a man!
whispering memories to himself. |
The others, save one or two that |
were clean-shaven, also wore the
mustaches or the beards of a day
that was done. :
I had begun to see those beards
long before they were gray; when no
wire fence mutilated the freedom of
the range; when fourteen mess-wag-
ons would be at the spring round-up;
when cattle wandered and pastured,
dotting the endless wilderness; when
roping them brought the college
graduate and the boy who had never
learned to read into a lusty equality
of youth and skill; when songs rose
by the camp-fire; and the dim form
of the night herder leaned on his sad-
dle horn as under the stars he cir-
cled slowly around the recumbent
thousands; when two hundred miles
stretched between all this and the
whistle of the nearest locomotive.
And all this was over. It had be-
gun to end a long while ago. It had
€bbed away slowly from these now
playing their nightly game as they
had once played it at flood-tide. The
turn of the tide had come even when
the beards were still brown or red or
golden.
The decline of their day began pos-
sibly with the first wire fence; the
great ranch life was hastened to its
death by the winter snows of 1886;
received its mortal stroke in the rus-
tle war of 1892; breathed its last—
no, it was still breathing, it had not
wholly given up the ghost. Cattle-
men and sheepmen, the newcomers,
were at deeds of violence with each
started, or whatever they called such
start sign-boards.”
“That’s so,” said Henry.
A third player spoke to the read-
er. ‘Travel must have started red-
light houses. Does he mention them,
Gilbert 2”
“He wouldn't do that, Marshal, not
in a magazine: he wouldn't,” said
James Work. r
“He oughtn't,” said Henry. “Such
things should not be printed.”
“Well, I guess it was cities start-
ed them, not travel,” surmised Mar-
shal. “I wonder whose idea red light
was.”
“They had sign-boards in Ancient
Rome,” answered the man at the
back of the room.
“Think of that!’ said Henry.
“Might have been one of them Em-
perors started the red light,” said
Marshal, “same as gladiators.”
The game went on, always listless.
Habit was strong, and what else was
there to do?
“October, 1885,” said Marshal
“That was when Toothpick Kid pull-
ed his gun on Doc Barker and per-
suaded him to be a dentist.”
“Not 1(85,” said James
“That was 1886.”
“October, 1885,” insisted Marshal.
Work.
“The railroad came to Douglas the
{ mine now and then.
next year.”
“He's got it correct,
Henry.
“Where is Toothpick Kid nowa-
days?” I inquired.
“Pulled his freignt for Alaska. Not
heard from since 1905. She’s taken
up with Duke Gardiner’s brother, the
Kid’s woman has,” said Henry.
“The Kid wanted Barker to fix his
teeth same as Duke Gardiner had
his,” said Work.
“I don’t think I've seen Duke Gard-
iner since '91,” said I.
“When last heard from,” said Hen-
ry, “Duke was running a joint in El
Paso.”
“There’s a name for you!” ex-
claimed the man at the back of ths
room. “ ‘Goat and Compasses’! They
had that on a signboard in England.
Well, and would you ever guess what
it started from! ‘God encompasseth
us!”
“Think of that!” said Henry.
“Does it say,” asked Work, “if
they had any double signs like Hen-
ry’s here?” .
it doesn’t. If I strike
Jim,” 3aid
“Not so far,
any, I'll tell you.”
That double sign of Henry's, hang-
he had taken. I put it inside his shirt
with him. Nobody saw it but me.”
“What would you call that for a
name?” said the reader at the hack
of the room. ‘ ‘Goose and Gridiron.’”
“I'd call that good,” said Work.
“It would sound good to a hungry
traveler,” said Stirling.
“Any more of them?” asked Hen-
ry.
“Rafts of them. I'll tell you the
next good one.”
~ “Yes, tell us. And tell us when and
where they all started. if it says.”
In the silence of the cards. a door
shut somewhere along the dark
street. : :
“That's
Henry.
“First time I ever heard of him in
town,” said I.
“We made him come in. Old Man
Clarke is getting terrible shaky. He
wouldn't accept a room. So he sleeps
in the old stage office and cooks for
himself. If you put him in New
York he’d stay a hermit all the
same.”
“How old is he?”
“Nobody knows. He looked about
as old as he does now when I ‘ook
this hotel. That was 1887. But we
don't want him to live alone up that
canyon any more. He rides up to his
Don’t let any-
body go along. Says the secret will
die with him. Hello, Jed. Let’s have
the whole of ‘Buffalo Girls.’ ” And
Jed Goodland played the old quadriile
music through.
“Youu used to hear that pretty of-
ten, I guess,” said Henry to me; and
I nodded.
Scraping steps shambled slowly by
in the sand. We listened. =
“He doesn’t seem to be coming in,”
I said.
“He may. He will if he feels like
it, and he won't if he feels likenot.”
“He had to let me help him onto
his horse the other day,” said Mar-
shal. “But he’s more limber some
days than others.”
Presently the scraping steps came
again, passed the
distant.
“Yes,” said Work. “Old Man Clarke
is sure getting feeble.”
“Did you say it was Buck Sea-
brook shot your clock the last time?”
“Yes. Buck.”
“If I remember correct,”
afternoon down by the corral.”
ler 2”
Old Man Clarke,” said
door, and grew
pursued
\Stirling, “it wasn’t Buck did it, it was
that joker his horse bucked off same
“That Hat Six wrang
“Yes. Horse bucked him off. He
went up so high the fashions had
changed when he came down.”
“So it was, George.” And he
chuckled over the memory.
“Where does Old Man Clarke walk
to?” I asked; for the steps came
scraping along again.
“Just around and. around,” said
Henry. “He always would do things
his own way. You can’t change him.
He has taken to talking to
this year.” :
The door opened and he looked in,
“Hello, boys,” said he.
“Hello “yourself, Uncle Jerry,” said
ing outside now in the dark of the
silent town, told its own tale of the
old life in its brief way. From Mon-
tana to Texas, I had seen them. Does
anybody know when the first one was
imagined and painted?
A great deal of frontier life is told
by the four laconic words. They
were to be found at the edges or
those towns which rose overnight in
the midst of nowhere, sang and
danced and shot for a while, and
then sank into silence. As the rider
from his round-up or his mine rode
into town with full pockets, he read
“First Chance,’ in the morning as he
rode out with pockets empty, he read
mself
Work. “Have chair. Have a
drink.”
“Well, maybe Ill think it over.”
He shut the door, and the steps went
shambling away.
“His voice sounds awful old,” said
Marshal. “Does he know the way
his hair and beard look?”
“Buck Seabrook,” mused Stirling.
I haven't seen him for quite a while.
Is he in the country now?”
Henry shook his head.
in no country any more.”
“Well, now, I hadn't heard of it.
Well, well.”
“Any of you remember Chet Shars-
ton?” asked Marshal.
“Sure,” said Stirling. “Did him
and Buck have any trouble?”
“No, they never had any trouble,”
said Henry. “Not they.”
“What was that Hat Six wrang-
ler's name?” asked Work.
“He said it was Johnson,” replied
Henry.
Again the shambling steps ap-
proached. This time Old Man Clarks
came in, and Henry invited hiin to
join in the game.
“No, boys,” he said. “Thank you
just the same. T'll sit over here for
a while.” He took a chair. “You
boys just go on. Don’t mind me.”
His pale, ancient eyes seemed to no-
tice us less than they did the shift-
ing pictures in his brain.
“Why don’t you see the barber,
Uncle Jerry?” asked Marshal.
“Nearest barber is in Casper. May-
be I'll think it over.
“ ‘Swan and Harp,” ” said the man
a
“Buck is
at the back of the room. “That's
another.”
“Not equal to Goat and Com-
passes,” said Work.
“It don’t make you expect a good
meal like Goose and Gridiron,” said
Henry. “I'll trim your hair tomor-
row, Uncle Jerry, if you say so.”
“Boys, none that tasted her flap-
jacks ever wanted another cook,”
said Old Man Clarke.
“Well, what do you think of ‘Hoop
and Grapes’ ?”
“Nothing at all,” said Henry.
“Hoop and Grapes makes no appeal
to me.”
“You boys never knowed my wife,”
said Old Man Clarke in his corner.
“Flapjacks. Biscuits. She was a
buck-skinned son-of-a-gun.” His
vague eyes swam, but the next mo-
ment his inconsequent cheerfulness
returned. “Dance night, and all the
girls late,” he said.
“A sign-board outside a hotel or
saloon,” said Marshal, “should have
Something to do with what’s done in-
side.”
“That’s so,” said Henry.
“Take Last Chance and First
Chance,” Marshal continued. “Has
England anything to beat that, I'd
like to know? Did you see any to
beat it?” he asked me.
“No, I never did.
“You come for fishing ?”
Man Clarke.
“I've brought my rod,” I answered.
“No trout in this country any
more,” said he. “My creek is fished
out. And the elk are gone. I've not
-jumped a blacktail deer these three
years. Where are the antelope?” He
frowned; his eyes seemed to be ask-
ing questions. “But I'll get ye some
meat tomorro’, boys,” he declared in
his threadbare, cheerful voice; and
then it trailed off.
tom of Lake Champlain,” he said.
asked Old
{
Henry.
“Not now, and thank you just the
same. Maybe I'll think it over.”
“Buck Sebrook was fine to travel
with,” said Stirling.
“A fine upstanding cow-puncher,”
added Work. “Honest clean through
Never knew him to go back on his
word or do a crooked action.”
“Him and Chet Sharston traveled
together prety much,” said Henry.
Stirling chuckled over a memory.
“Chet he used to try and beat Buck’s
flow of conversation. Wanted tc
converse some himself.”
i “Well, Chet could.” .
“Oh, he could some. But never
equal to Buck.”
. “Here's a good one,” said the man
at the back of the room. “ ‘Bolt-in-
Tun.’ ”
, “How do they spell a thing like
that?” demanded Marshal.
It was spelled for him.
“Well, that may make sense to an
Englishman,” said Henry.
“Doesn’t it say where sign-boards
started ?”’ asked Work.
“Not yet.” And the reader contin-
ued to pore over the syllables, which
he followed with moving lips.
“Buck was telling Chet,” said
Stirling, “of a mistake he made one
Antone. Buck was going to his
night at the Southern Hotel in San-
room fair fate at night when a man
came round the corner of his floor
; and quick as he seen Buck, he put his
hand back to his hip pocket. Well,
| Buck never lost any time. So when
j the man took a whirl and fell in a
i heap Buck waited to see what he
would do next. But the man didn't
do anything more.
“So Buck goes to him and turns
{him over; and it isn't any stranger,
.it is a prospector Buck had met up
.| with in Nevada; and the prospector
. had nothing worse than a flask in his
pocket. He'd been aiming to offer a
drinks. Buck sure felt sorry about
making such a mistake, he said. And
Chet, he waited, for he knowed very
well that Buck hoped he would ask
him what he did when he discovered
the truth.
“After a while Buck couldn't wait;
and so in disappointment he says to
Chet very solemn, ‘I carried out the
wishes of the deceased.
“‘I was looking over the transom
when you drank his whisky,’ says
Chet.
“‘Where’'s your memory? You
were the man,’ says Buck. Well, well,
werei’t they a nonsensical pair!”
‘I remember,” said Henry. “They
were sitting right there.” And he
pointed to a table.
“They were playing cooncan,” said
Marshal. “I remember that night
well. Buck was always Buck. Well,
well! Why didn't Buck learn you
cooncan ?”
“Yes, he did,” said I. “It was that
same night.”
“Boys,” said Old Man Clarke over
“All at the bot-
“Have a drink, Uncle Jerry?” said |
in the corner, “I'll get ye some fresh
meat tomorro’.”
“That’s you, Uncle Jerry!” said
Henry, heartily. “You get us a nice
elk, or a blacktail, and I'll grub-
stake you for the winter.”
“She’s coming,” said Old Man
Clarke. “Winter's coming. I'll shoot
any of ye a match with my new
45-90 at a hundred yards. Hit tne
the ace of spades five out of five.” ,
“Sure you can Uncle Jerry.”
“Flapjacks. Biscuits. And she
could look as pretty as a pride,”
said Old Man Clarke.
“Wasn't it Chet,” said Work
“that told Toothpick Kid Doc Bark-
er had fixed up Duke Gardiner’s
teeth for him?”
“Not Chet. It was Buck told him
that.”
Henry appealed to me. “What's
your remembrance of it?”
“Why, I always thought it was
Buck,” I answered.
“Buck was always Buck," said
Marshal. “Well, well !”
“Who did fix Duke’s teeth?”
“It was a traveling dentist. He
done a good job, too, on Duke. All
gold. Hit Drybone when Duke was
in the hospital, but he went North
in two or three days on the stage
for Buffalo. That's how the play
come up.”
“Chet could yarn as well as Buck
now and then,” said Stirling.
“Not often,” said Henry. “Not
very often.”
“Well but he could. There was
that experience Chet claimed he had
down in the tornado belt.”
“I remember,” said Henry. “Down
in Texas.”
“Chet mentioned it was in Kan-
sas.”
‘“San Saba, Texas,” said Henry.
“You're right. San Saba. So it
was. Chet worked for a gambler
there who wanted to be the owner
of a house that you could go up-
stairs in.”
“I didn’t know Chet could deal a
deck,” said Marshal.
“He couldn't. Never could. He
hired as a carpenter to the gam-
bler.”
“Chet was handy with tools.” said
Henry.
“A very neat worker. So the
house was to be two stories. So
Chet he said he’d help. Well, he did
better'n help. Said he built the
whole thing. Said it took him four
months. Said he kep’ asking the
gambler for some money. The day
he could open the front door of his
house and walk in and sit down, the
gambler told Chet he’d pay him the
total. So they walks out to it the
day the job’s complete and chair’s
ready for sitting in, and the gzam-
bler he takes hold of the door-knob
,and whang!a cyclone hits the
i house.
“The gambler saved the door-knob
—didn’t let gv of it. Chet claimed
he had fulfilled his part of the c.n-
tract, but the gambler said a door-
knob was not cufficient evidence that
any house had been there. Wouldn't
pay Chet a cent.”
“They used to be a mean bunch in
Texas,” said Stirling.
“I was in this country befor: any
of you boys was born,” said Old Man
Clarke.
“Sure you were, Uncle Jerry,”
said Henry. “Sure you were.”
“I used to be hell and repeat.”
“Sure thing, Uncle Jerry.”
i For a while there was little sound
in the Last Chance Saloon save the
light notes which Jed Goodiani
struck on his fiddle from time to
| time.
| “How did that play come up.
. Henry ?” asked Work.
i “Which play?”
{ “Why Doc Barker and Toothpick
Kid.”
“Why, wasn't you right there that
| day 2”
| “I was, but I don’t seem to re-
member exactly how it started.”
| “Well” said Henry, “the Kid had
| to admit that Doc Barker put the
'kibosh on him after all. You're
wrong about Buck. He didn’t come
"into that.” Henry's voice seemed 19
pe waking up, his eyes were waking
| “Sure he put the kibosh on him,”
. Work agreed, energetically.
| “Wasn't it the day after they'd
corralled that fell’ up on the Dry
Cheyenne ?”’ asked Stirling.
| “So it was!” said Marshal. He too
; was waking up. Life was coming in-
to the talk of all. “That's where the
boys corralled him.”
| “Well,” said Stirling, “you
| couldn't leave a man as slick as he
was foot-loose, to go around and
play such a game on the
country.’ ’
“It was at the ranch gate Tooth-
pick Kid saw those new gold teeth
of Duke's,” said Marshal.
“It wasn't a mile from the gate,”
said Stirling. “Not a mile. And
Toothpick didn’t wait to ask Duke
the facts, or he'd have savsd his
money. Duke had happened to trail
his rope over the carcasses of some
stock. When he was roping a steer
after that, his hand was caught be-
tween a twist of the rope and his
saddle horn. So his hand got burn-
ed.” a
“Didn't Buck tell him he'd ought
to get Doc Barker to put some stuff
on it?”
“Buck did warn him but Duke
wouldn't listen. So Buck had to
bring him into the Drybone hospital
with an arm that they had to cut
his shirt-sleeve for.”
“I remember,” said Henry. ‘Duke
told me that Buck never said ‘I told
you so’ to him.”
“Buck wouldn't. If ever there was
a gentleman, it was Buck Seabrook.
Doc Barker slashed his arm open
from shoulder to elbow. He didn’t
want Duke either to die or to lose
his arm. And in twenty-four hours
the arm wasn't so big. But it was
still pretty big, and looked like
nothing at all, and Duke’s brother
saw it. They had sent for him. He
rode into town and when he saw the
arm and the way it had been cut by
Doc Barker he figured he'd lay for
Doc and kill him. Doc happened to
be out at the C-Y on a case.
“The boys met him as he came
, back, and warned him to keep out
whole :
of the way till Duke”s brother got
sober, so Doc kep’ out of his way.
No use having trouble with a drunken
man. Doc would have had to shoot
Duke's brother or take the conse-
quences. Well, next day the brother
sobered up, and the boys persuaded
him that Doc saved Duke's life and
he was satisfied and changed his
mind and there was no further hard
feelings. And he got interested in
the traveling dentist who had come
into town to pick up business from
the boys. He did good work. The
brother got a couple of teeth plug-
ged. They kept the dentist quite
busy.”
“I remember,” said Marshal.“ Chet
and Buck both had work done.”
“Do you remember the grass cook
fire Buck and Chet claimed they had
to cook their supper with?” asked
Work, with animation. Animation
was warming each one, more and
more. Their faces actually seemed
to be growing younger.
“Out beyond Meteetsee you
mean?’
“That was it.”
“What was it?” asked Marshal.
“Did they never tell you that?
Buck went around telling every:
body.”
“Grass cook-fire?” said Old Mar
Clarke in his withered voice. “No-
body ever cooked with grass. Gras
don’t burn a half minute. Rutherforc
B. Hayes was President when !
came into this country. But Samue
J. Tilden was elected. Yes, sir.”
‘Sure he was, Uncle Jerry."
Henry.
“Well Buck and Chet had to camj
; one night where they found a wate
hole, but no wood. No sage-brush
, no buffalo-chips, nothing except thi
grass, which was long. So Buck hs
filled the coffee-pot and lighted thi
grass. The little flames were hot
but they burned out quick and ra:
on to the next grass. So Buck he raj
after them holding his coffee-po
over the flames as they traveled. Si
he said Chet lighted some mor
grass and held his frying-pan ove
those flames and kep’ a-followiny
trail like he was doing with th
coffee-pot. He said that his coffee
pot boiled after a while and Chet’
meat was fried after a while, but b:
that time they were ten miles aparl
Walked around hunting for eac;
other till sunrise, and ate their sup
per breakfast.”
“What's that toon you're pla
fea inquired Stirling, Playin
“That’s ‘Sandy Land,” repli
ata ly eplied th
“Play it some more, Jed.
plumb natural. Like old times.”
“Yes, it does so,” said Henn
“Like when the boys used to dane
here.”
‘Dance !” said Old Man Clark
“None of you never seen me dance.
“Better have a drink, Uncle Je:
sai¢
Sound
“Thank you kindly. I'll have or
some water in. None of jou nev:
did, I guess.”
“I'll bet you shook a fancy
Uncle.” y SNOY | Lee
“I always started with the earlies
and kept going with the latest.
used to call for 'em too. Salute yor.
partners! Opposite the same ! Swin
your honey ! That's the style I use
to be. All at the bottom of Lak
Champlain. None of you ever knov
ed her.”
| “Have another, Uncle Jerry. Ti
nights are getting cold.”
. “Thank you kindly. I'll have ox
more. Winter's coming.”
“Any of you see that Wolf Ian
, where Toothpick wore the bucksk'
pants?” asked Work. “Wasn't ar
of you to that?”
i ‘Somebody played it on Toouthpic
didn't they?“ said Stirling.
i “Buck wasn’t dancing. He w:'
just looking on. Toothpick alwa;
said Buck was mad because ti
Indians adopted him into the tril
and wouldn't take Buck. They ga:
him a squaw. y’know. He lived wi:
her on the reservation till he left f
Alaska. He got her allotment
land with her, y'know. I saw hi
and her and their kids when I w.
there. I guess there were twel
kids. Probably twenty by the tin
he went to Alaska. She’d most ¢
ways have twins. : !
“Here's a name for you,” said &
man at the back of the room. “Wh
have you got to sav to “Whistli
Oyster?”
, “Whistling Oyster?” said Hem
“Well if I had ever had the misfc
tune to think of such a name 1d n
have mentioned it to anybody, a
I'd have tried to forget it.”
“Just like them English,” sé
Marshal.
“Did Toothpick have any novelt:
in the way of teeth?” asked Stirlix
‘If he did, he concealed them,” s:
Work.
{ “But him and Doc Barker h
no hard feelings,” said Henry. “Th
both put the mistake on Duke G:
diner and Duke said, well, they cot
leave it there if that made them f
happier.”
“Doc was happy as he could
already.”
“Well, a man would be after wi
, came so near happening to him, a
, What actually did happen.”
| “Did you say Buck was dead
asked Marshal.
“Dead these fifteen years,” s
Henry. ‘Didn't you hear about :
Some skunk in Texas caught Bt
with his wife. Buck had no time
jump for his gun.”
“Well there are worse ways
die. Poor Buck! D'you remem!
how he laid right down flat on
j back when they told him about I
and the Kid's teeth? The more
, Kid said any man in his place wo
\
have acted the same, the flat
Buck laid in the sage-brush.”
“I remember,” said Stirling.
. was cutting calves by the corral.
| “Duke was able to sit up in
. hospital and have the dentist w
on his cavities. And the den
edged the spaces with gold and
| cleaned all the teeth till you co
| notice them whenever Duke laugt
So he got well and rode out to ca
and praised Doc Barker for a s
good doctor. He meant his arm
course that Doc had slashed o
(Continued on page 7, Col. 1.)