Lewis Alfred Henry
Sandburrs and Others

GLADSTONE BURR

Gladstone Burr is a small, industrious, married man. His little nest of a home is in Brooklyn. Perhaps the most emphasised feature of the Burr family home is Mrs. B. She is a large woman, direct as Bismarck in her diplomacy, and when Gladstone Burr does wrong, she tells him of it firmly and fully for his good. There is but one bad habit which can with slightest show of truth be charged to Gladstone Burr. The barriers of his nature, yielding to social pressure, at intervals give way. At such times the soul of Gladstone Burr issues forth on a sea of strong drink.

But, as he says himself, “these bats never last longer than ten days.”

Notwithstanding this meagre limit, Mrs. B. does not approve of Gladstone Burr when thus socially relaxed. And from time to time she has left nothing unsaid on that point. Indeed, Mrs. B. has so fully defined her position on the subject, that Gladstone Burr, while he in no sense fears her, does not care to go home unless he is either very drunk or very sober. There is no middle ground in tippling where Gladstone Burr and Mrs. B. can meet with his consent. He is not superstitious, but he avers that whenever he has been drinking and meets Mrs. B. he has had bad luck. His only safety lies in either being sober and avoiding it, or in taking refuge in a jag too thick for wifely admonitions to pierce.

There arose last week in the life of Gladstone Burr some event that it was absolutely necessary to celebrate. For two days he gave himself up to his destiny in that behalf, and being very busy with his festival Gladstone Burr did not go home.

Toward the close of the third day he was considering with himself how best to approach his domicile so as to avoid the full force of the storm. He was not so deep in his cups at that moment, but Mrs. B.‘s opinions gave him concern. Still, he felt the need of going home. He was tired and he was sick. Gladstone Burr knew he would be a great deal sicker in the morning, but he felt of a four-bit piece in his pocket, and remarking something about the hair of a dog, took courage, and was confident he carried the means of restoring himself.

But how to get home!

It was at this crisis in the affairs of Gladstone Burr that his friend, Frederick Upham Adams, came up. An inspiration seized Gladstone Burr. Adams should take him home in a carriage. Mrs. B. didn’t know Adams, being careful of her acquaintances. They would say that he, Gladstone Burr, had been ill, almost dead from apoplexy, or sunstroke, during the recent hot spell, and that “Dr. Adams” was bringing him home.

It was a most happy thought.

“Don’t be alarmed, Mrs. Burr,” said Adams, as an hour later he supported the drooping Gladstone Burr through the hall and stowed him away on a sofa. “I am Dr. Adams, of Williamsburg. Mr. Burr has suffered a great shock, but he is out of danger now. All he needs is rest – perfect rest!”

Gladstone Burr gasped piteously from the sofa. Mrs. B. was deceived perfectly. The ruse worked like a charm.

“How long must he be kept quiet, Doctor?” asked Mrs. B., as she wrung her hands over Gladstone Burr’s danger. She was bending above the invalid at the time, and he was unable to signal his friend to be careful how he prescribed.

“Oh! ahem!” observed “Dr. Adams,” looking at the ceiling, professionally, “about three days! That is right! Perfect rest for three days, and Mr. Burr will be a well man again.”

“Are there directions as to what medicines to give him?” asked Mrs. B., passing her hand gently over Gladstone Burr’s heated dome of thought; “any directions about the food, Doctor?”

“He needs no medicine,” observed the wretched Adams, closing his eyes sagaciously, and sucking his cane. “As for food, we must be careful. I should advise nothing but milk. Give him milk, Mrs. Burr, milk.”

After this Frederick Upham Adams drove away. And at the end of three days Gladstone Burr was almost dead.

THE GARROTE

(Annals of The Bend)

Tell youse somethin’ about d’ worser side of d’ Bend!” retorted Chucky. His manner was resentful. I had put my question in a fashion half apologetic and as one who might be surprised at anything bad in the Bend. It was this lamblike method of being curious that Chucky didn’t applaud. Evidently he gloried a bit in the criminal vigour of certain phases of a Bend existence.

“Mebby you t’inks there is no worser side to d’ Bend! Mebby you takes d’ Bend for a hotbed of innocence! Don’t string no stuff on d’ milky character of d’ Bend. Youse would lose it one, two, t’ree, keno! see! There’s dead loads of t’ings about d’ Bend what’s so tough it ‘ud make youse sore on yourself to get onto ‘em.

“Be d’ way! while youse is chinnin’ concernin’ d’ hard lines of d’ Bend, I’m put in mind about Danny d’ Face, who shows up from Sing Sing to-day. Say! d’ Face wasn’t doin’ a t’ing but put up a roar all d’ morn-in’, till a cop shows up an’ lays it out cold if d’ Face don’t cork, he’ll pinch him.

“What was d’ squeal about? Why! it’s like this,” continued Chucky, settling himself where the barkeeper might know when his glass was empty. “It’s all about d’ Face’s Bundle. When d’ victim takes his little ten spaces, his Bundle mourns ‘round for a brace of mont’s, see! An’ then she marries another guy.

“What else could youse look for? That’s what I say; what could d’ Face expect? Ten spaces ain’t like a stretch, it’s ‘life,’ see! D’ mug who chases in an’ takes a trip for ten, he’s a lifer. An’ you knows as well as me, even if youse ain’t done time, that when a duck gets life, it’s d’ same as a divorce. That’s dead straight! his Bundle is free to get married ag’in.

“An’ that’s just what d’ Face’s Rag does; she hooks up wit’ another skate, after d’ Face has had his stripes for a couple of mont’s. She’s no tree-toad to live on air an’ scenery, so she gets hitched. I was right there, pipin’ off d’ play meself, when d’ w’ite choker ties ‘em. It was a good weddin’, wit’ a dandy lot of lush; d’ can was passin’ all d’ time, an’ so d’ mem’ry of it is wit’ me still.

“As I says, d’ Face comes weavin’ in this mornin’, an’ tries to break up what d’ poipers call ‘existin’ conditions.’ It don’t go, though; d’ cop cuts in on d’ play an’ makes it a cinch case of nit, see!

“What’ll d’ Face do? What can he do but screw his nut an’ stan’ for it? He ain’t got no licence to interfere. It’s a case of ‘nothin’ doin’,’ as far as d’ Face’s end goes. Let him charge ‘round an’ grab off another skirt. There’s plenty of ‘em; d’ Face can find another wife if he goes d’ right way down d’ line. But he don’t make no hit be hollerin’, he can take a tumble to that.

“What is it railroads d’ Face? He does a stunt garrotin’, see! I’ll tell youse d’ story. Of course, d’ Face is a crook.

“Now, understan’ me! I ain’t no crook. I’m a fakir, an’ a grafter; an’ I’ve been fly in me time an’ I ain’t no dub to-day, but I never was no crook, see! But, of course, born as I was in Kelly’s Alley, an’ always free of d’ Bowery push, I hears a lot about crooks, an’ has more’n one of d’ swell mob on me visitin’ list.

“Naw; d’ Face was never in d’ foist circles, nothin’ fine to him. He never was d’ real t’ing as a dip, an ‘d’ best he could do was to shove an’ stall. Now an’ then he toins a trick as a porch climber; but even at that I never gets a tip of any big second-story woik d’ Face does.

“D’ Face’s best trick is d’ garrote, an’ it’s on d’ gar-rote lay dey downs d’ Face when dey puts him away.

“Now-days there’s a lot of sandbaggin’. Some mug comes wanderin’ along, loaded to d’ guards wit* booze, an’ some soon duck lends him a t’ump back of d’ nut wit’ a sandbag, or mebby it’s a lead pipe or a bar of rubber. Over goes d’ slewed mug, on his map, an’ d’ rest is easy money, see! That’s d’ way it’s done now.

“But in d’ old times, when I’m a kid, it ain’t d’ sandbag; it’s d’ garrote. An’ d’ patient can be cold sober, still d’ garrote goes all right. It takes two to woik it; but even at that it beats d’ sandbag hands down. It’s smoother, cleaner, and more like a woik-man, see! d’ garrote is.

“Besides, there’s more apt to be stuff on a sober party than on some stiff who’s tanked. I know d’ poipers is always talkin’ about people gettin’ a load, wit’ money all over ‘em; but youse can gamble! such talk is a song an’ dance. I’m more’n seven years old, an’ me exper’ence is, that it’s a four-to-one shot a drunk is every time broke.

“But to go to d’ story of how d’ Face gets pinched. As I states, it’s way back; not quite ten spaces (for d’ Face shortens his stay at d’ pen wit’ good conduct time see!), an ‘d’ Face an’ a pal, Spot Casey, who’s croaked now, is out on d’ garrote lay.

“D’ Face is followin’, an’ Spot is sluggin’. Here’s how dey lays out d’ game. It’s on Fift’ Avenoo, down be Nint’. Spot’s playin’ round d’ corner on Nint’; d’ Face is woikin’ about a block away on Fift’ Avenoo, on d’ lookout for a sucker, see! Along he comes walkin’ fast, this sucker. As he passes, d’ Face gives him d’ size-up. He’s got a spark, an’ a yellow chain, an’ looks like he’s good for a hundred in d’ long green. That does for d’ Face. He lets this guy get good an’ by, an’ then toins an’ shadows him.

“D’ Face walks faster than d’ sucker. It’s his play to be nex’, be d’ time dey hits Nint’, where Spot is layin’ dead.

“As dey chases up, d’ Face an ‘d’ snoozer he’s out to do is bot’ walkin’ fast, wit ‘d’ Face five foot behint.

“Just before dey makes d’ corner, d’ Face gives d’ office to Spot be stampin’ onct wit’ his trilby on d’ sidewalk. Then he moves right up sharp, claps his right arm about d’ geezer’s t’roat, at d’ same time grabbin’ his right hook wit’ his left an’ yankin’ his arm in tight. It shuts off d’ duck’s wind.

“As d’ Face clenches his party, as I says, he gives him d’ knee behint, an’ sort o’ lifts him up. At d’ same instant, Spot comes chasin’ round d’ corner in front an’ smashes his right duke into what d’ prize fighters calls ‘d’ mark.’ Yes, it’s d’ same t’ump that does for Corbett that day wit’ Fitz.

“‘That’s d’ stuff, Spot!’ says d’ Face, as d’ party is slugged, an’ then he sets him down be d’ fence all limp an’ quiet, an’ goes t’rough him.

“Dey gets a super, a pin, an’ quite a healt’y roll besides. He’s so done up dey even gets a di’mond off one of his hooks.

“Sure! d’ garrote almost puts a mark’s light out. Youse can bet! after youse has been t’rough d’ mill onct, youse won’t t’ink, travel, nor raise d’ yell for half an hour. A mark’s lucky to be alive who’s been t’rough d’ garrote. It ain’t so bad as d’ sandbag at that, neither.

“How was it d’ Face is took? Nit; d’ cop don’t get in on d’ play; dey win easy. It’s two weeks later when he’s collared. D’ Face’s pal, Spot, gets too gabby wit’ a skirt, who’s stoolin’ for d’ p’lice on d’ sly, an’ she goes an’ knocks to d’ Chief!”

O’TOOLE’S CHIVALRY

A woman, a spaniel, and a walnut tree;

The more you beat them, the better they be.

Irish Proverb.

Thus sadly sang P. Sarsfield O’Toole to himself, as he readjusted the bandage to his wronged eye. He believed it, too; at least in the case of Madame Bridget Burke, the wife of one John Burke.

The Burkes were the neighbours of P. Sarsfield O’Toole; they lived next door. The intimacy, however, went no further; O’Toole and the Burkes were not friends.

This is the story of the damaged eye. It offers the reason why P. Sarsfield O’Toole comforted himself with the vigorous Irish proverb.

It was the evening before. P. Sarsfield O’Toole was sitting on his back porch, cooling himself after a day’s work at his profession of bricklayer, by reading the history of Ireland. The Burkes were holding audible converse just over the division fence.

P. Sarsfield O’Toole closed the history of his native land to listen. This last was neither an arduous nor a painful task, for the Burkes, with the splendid frankness of a household willing to stand or fall by its record, could be heard a block.

“Me family was noble!” P. Sarsfield O’Toole overheard John Burke remark. “The Burkes wanst lived in their own cashtle.”

“They did not,” observed Madame Burke. “They lived woild in the bog of Allen, and there was mud on their shanks from wan ind of the year to the other. Divvil a cashtle did a Burke ever see; barrin’ a jail.”

“Woman! av yez arouse me,” said John Burke, threateningly, “I’ll break the bones of ye, an’ fling yez in the corner to mend. Don’t exashperate me, woman.”

“I exashperate yez!” retorted Madame Burke, scornfully. “For phwat wud I exashperate yez! Wasn’t your own uncle transhpoorted? Answer me that, John Burke?”

“Me uncle suffered to free Ireland, woman!” responded the husband.

“May the divvil hould him!” said Madame Burke. “He was transhpoorted as a felon, for b’atin’ the head off Humpy Pete, the cripple, at the Fair. He was an illygant speciment of a Burke! always b’atin’ cripples an’ women!”

The last would seem to have been an unfortunate remark, in so far as it contained a suggestion. The next heard by the listening P. Sarsfield O’Toole was the loud lament of Madame Bridget Burke as her husband, John Burke, submitted her to that correction which he afterwards described to the police justice as, “givin’ her a tashte av the sthrap.”

The cries of Madame Bridget Burke were at their highest when P. Sarsfield O’Toole looked over the fence.

“Shtop b’atin’ the leddy, John Burke!” commanded P. Sarsfield O’Toole.

“Phwat’s it to yez! ye Far-down!” demanded John Burke, looking up from his labours. “Av yez hang your chin on that line fince ag’in, I’ll welt the life out av yez! D’ye moind it now!”

“Is it to me yez apploies the word ‘Far-down!” shouted P. Sarsfield O’Toole, wrathfully. “Phwat are yez yerself but a rascal of a Stonethrower? Don’t timpt me with your names, John Burke, an’ shtop b’atin’ the leddy. If I iver come over wanst to yez, I’ll return a criminal!”

“Shtop b’atin’ me own lawful Bridget,” retorted John Burke, in tones of scorn, “when she’s been teasin’ for the sthrap a month beyant! Well, I loike that! I’ll settle with yez, O’Toole, when I tache me woife to respect the name of Burke.” Here the representative of that honourable title smote Madame Bridget lustily. “Av I foind yez in me yarud, O’Toole, ye’ll lay no bricks to-morry.”

P. Sarsfield O’Toole cleared the fence at a bound. He was chivalrous, and would rescue Madame Burke. He was proud and would resent the opprobrious epithet of “Far-down.” He was sensitive, and would teach John Burke never to threaten him with disability as a bricklayer.

P. Sarsfield O’Toole, as stated, cleared the fence at a bound, and closed with John Burke as if he were a bargain.

What might have been the finale of this last collision will never be known. As P. Sarsfield O’Toole and John Burke danced about, locked in a deadly embrace, the emancipated Madame Burke suddenly selected a piece of scantling from the general armory of the Burke backyard and brought it down, not on the head of her oppressor, but on that of the gallant P. Sarsfield O’Toole, who had come to her rescue.

“Oh, ye murtherin’ villyun!” shouted Madame Burke. “W’ud yez kill a husband befure the eyes of his lawful widded woife! An’ due yez think I’d wear his ring and see yez do it!”

At this point in the conversation Madame Bridget Burke cut a long, satisfactory gash in P. Sarsfield O’Toole, just over the eye.

The police came.

John Burke was fined twenty dollars.

Madame Bridget Burke, present lovingly in court, paid it with a composite air, breathing insolence for the judge and affection for John Burke.

“The ijee av that shpalpeen, O’Toole,” said Madame Burke that evening to John Burke, and her words floated over the fence to P. Sarsfield O’Toole, as he nursed his wounds on his porch; “the ijee av that shpalpeen, O’Toole, comin’ bechuxt man and woife! D’ yez moind th’ cheek av ‘im! Didn’t the priest say, ‘Phwat hivin has j’ined togither, let no man put asoonder?”

“He did, Bridget, he did,” replied John Burke. “An’ yez have the particulars av a foine woman about yez, yerself, Bridget!”

“Troth! an’ I have,” said Madame Burke, giving full consent to this view of her merits. “But, John, phwat a rapscallion yer uncle they transhpoorted must av been, to bate the loife out o’ poor Humpy Pete, the cripple-fiddler, that toime at the Fair!”

For the second time the strap fell, and the shrieks of Madame Burke filled the neighbourhood. P. Sarsfield O’Toole, still on his porch, sat unmoved, and bestowed no interest on the doings of the Burkes. As the strap was plied and the yells of the victim uplifted, P. Sarsfield O’Toole repeated the proverb which stands at the head of this story.

WAGON MOUND SAL

(Wolfville)

It was Wagon Mound Sal – she got the prefix later and was plain “Sal” at the time – who took up laundry-labours when Benson Annie became a wife. And this tells of the wooing and wedding of Riley Bent with Sallie of Wagon Mound.

Wagon Mound Sal prevailed, as stated, the mistress of a laundry. And it was there Riley Bent first beheld her, as she was putting a tubful of the blue woollen shirts affected by the males of her region through a second suds. On this occasion Riley’s appearance was due to a misunderstanding. He was foggy with drink, and looked in on a theory that the place was a store which made a specialty of the sale of shirts.

“What for a j’int is this?” asked Riley as he entered.

“It’s a laundry,” replied Sal; and then observing that Riley Bent was in his cups, she continued with delicate firmness; “an’ if you-all ain’t mighty keerful how you line out, you’ll shorely get a smoothin’ iron direct.”

Nothing daunted by the lady’s candour, Riley Bent sat down on a furloughed tub which reposed bottom up in one corner. In the course of a conversation, whereof he furnished the questions, and Sal the short, inhospitable replies, it occurred that she and Riley Bent became mutually, albeit dimly, known to one another.

During the three months following, Riley Bent was much and persistently in the laundry of Wagon Mound Sal. Wolfville, eagle-eyed in the softer and more dulcet phenomena of life, looked confidently for a wedding. So in truth did Sal, emulous of Benson Annie. Also Sal was a clear-minded, resolute young lady; and having one day concluded to take Riley Bent for better or for worse, she lost no time in bringing matters to a focus.

“You’re a maverick?” she one day asked, suddenly looking up from her ironing. Sal’s tones were steady and cool, but it was noticed that she burnt a hole in the bosom of Doc Peets’s shirt while waiting a reply. “You-all ain’t married none?”

“Thar ain’t no squaw has ever been able to rope, throw an’ run her brand on me!” said Riley Bent. “Which I’m shorely a maverick!”

“Whatever then is the matter of you an’ me dealin’?” asked Sal, coming around to Riley Bent’s side of the ironing table.

That personage surveyed her in a thoughtful maze.

“You’re a long horn, an’ for that much so be I,” he said at last, as one who meditates. “Neither of us would grade for corn-fed in anybody’s yards!”

Then came another long pause, during which, with his eyes fixedly gazing into Wagon Mound Sal’s, Riley Bent gave himself to the unwonted employment of thinking. At last he shook his head until the little gold bells on his bullion hatband tinkled in a dubious, uncertain way, as taking their tone from the wearer.

“Which the idee bucks me plumb off!” he remarked, with a final deep breath; and then with no further word Riley repaired to the Red Light Saloon and became dejectedly yet deeply drunk.

For a month Wolfville saw naught of Riley Bent. He was supposed to be two-score miles away on the range with his cattle. Wagon Mound Sal, with a trace of grimness about the mouth, conducted her laundry, and, in the absence of competition, waxed opulent. She looked confidently for the return of Riley Bent; as what woman, knowing her spells and powers, would have not.

At last he came. Sal, as well as Wolfville, learned of his presence by a mellow whoop at the far end of the single street. Sal was subsequently gratified by a view of him as he and a comrade, one Rice Hoskins, slid from their saddles and entered the Red Light Saloon.

Wagon Mound Sal was offended at this; he should have come straight to her. But beyond slamming her irons unreasonably as she replaced them on the range, she made no sign.

To give Riley Bent justice, he had done little during the month of his absence save think of Wagon Mound Sal. Whether he pursued the evanescent steer, or organised the baking powder biscuit of his day and kind, Wagon Mound Sal ran ever in his thoughts like a torrent. But he couldn’t bring himself to the notion of a wife; not even if that favoured woman were Wagon Mound Sal.

“Seems like bein’ married that a-way,” he explained to Rice Hoskins, as they discussed the business about their camp-fire, “is so onnacheral.”

“That’s whatever!” assented Rice Hoskins.

“But,” said Riley Bent after a pause; “I reckon I’d better ride in an’ tell her she don’t get me none, an’ end the game.”

“That’s whatever!”

It was deference to this view which gained Wolfville the pleasure of the presence of Riley Bent and Rice Hoskins on the occasion named. It had been Riley Bent’s plan – having first acquired what stimulant he might crave – to leave Rice Hoskins to the companionship of the barkeeper, while he repaired briefly to Wagon Mound Sal, and expressed a determination never to wed. But after the first drink he so far modified the programme as to decide, instead, to write a letter.

“You see!” he said, “writin’ a letter shows a heap more respect. An’ then ag’in, if I goes personal, she might get all wrought up an’ lay for me permiscus a whole lot.”

The flaw in this letter plan became apparent. Neither Riley Bent nor Rice Hoskins could write. They made application to Black Jack, the barkeeper, to act as amanuensis. But he saw objection, and hesitated.

“I reckon I’ll pass the deal, gents,” said Black Jack, “if you-alls don’t mind. The grand jury is goin’ to begin their round-up over in Tucson next week, an’ they’d jest about call it forgery.”

At last as a solution, Rice Hoskins drew a rude picture in ink of a woman going one way, and a man with a big hat and disreputable spurs, going the other; what he called an “Injun letter.” This work of art he regarded with looks of sagacity and satisfaction.

“If she was an Injun,” said the artist, “she’d sabe that picture mighty quick. That means: ‘You-all take your trail an’ I’ll take mine.’”

“Which it does seem plain as old John Chisholm’s ‘Fence-rail Brand,’” remarked Riley Bent. “Now jest make a tub by her, an’ mark me with a 4-bar-J, the same bein’ my brand; then she’ll shorely tumble. Thar’s nothin’ like ropin’ with a big loop; then if you miss the horns, you’re mighty likely to fasten by the feet.”

The missive was despatched to Wagon Mound Sal by hand of a Mexican. Then Riley Bent and Rice Hoskins restored their flagged spirits with liquor.

Riley Bent and Rice Hoskins drank a vast deal. And it came to pass, by virtue of this indiscretion, that Rice Hoskins later, while Riley Bent was still thoughtfully over his cups at the Red Light, rode his broncho into the New York Store. In the plain line of objection to this, Jack Moore, the Marshal, shot Rice Hoskins’ pony. As the animal fell it pinned Rice Hoskins to the floor by his leg; in this disadvantageous position he emptied his pistol at Jack Moore, and of course missed.

Moore was in no sort an idle target. He was a painstaking Marshal, and showed his sense of duty at this time by putting four bullets through the reckless bosom of Rice Hoskins; the staccate voices of their Colt’s six-shooters melted into each other until they sounded as one.

“I never could shoot none with a pony on my laig,” observed Rice Hoskins.

Then a splash of blood stained his sun-coloured moustache; his empty pistol rattled on the board floor; his head dropped on his arm, and Rice Hoskins was dead.

It was at this crisis that Riley Bent, startled by the artillery as he sat in the Red Light, came whirling to the scene on his pony. The duel was over before he set foot in stirrup. He saw at a glance that Rice Hoskins was only a memory. Had he been romantic, or a sentimentalist, Riley Bent would have shot out the hour with Jack Moore, the Marshal. And had there been one spark of life in the heart of Rice Hoskins to have fought over, Riley Bent would have stood in the smoke of his own six-shooter all day and taken what Fate might send. As it was, however, he curbed his broncho in mid-speed so bluntly, the Spanish bit filled its mouth with blood. It spun on its hind hoofs like a top. Then, as the long spurs dug to its ribs, it whizzed off in the opposite direction; out of camp like an arrow. The last bullet in Jack Moore’s pistol splashed on a silver dollar in Riley Bent’s pocket as he turned his pony.

“Whenever I reloads my pistol,” said Jack Moore to Old Man Enright, who had come up, “I likes to reload her all around; so I don’t regyard that last cartridge as no loss.”

Wagon Mound Sal was deep in a study of Rice Hoskins’ “Injun letter” when the shooting took place. The missive’s meaning was not so easy to make out as its hopeful authors had believed. When the deeds of Jack Moore were related to her, however, the brow of Wagon Mound Sal took on an angry flush. She sent a message to Jack Moore asking him to call at once.

“Whatever do you mean?” she demanded of Jack Moore, as he entered the laundry, “a-stampedin’ of Riley Bent out of camp that a-way? Don’t you know I was intendin’ to marry him? Yere he’s been gone a month, an’ yet the minute he shows up you have to take to cuttin’ the dust ‘round his moccasins with your six-shooter, an’ away he goes ag’in. He jest nacherally seizes on your gun-play for a good excuse. It’s shore enough to drive one plumb loco!”

Jack Moore looked decidedly bothered.

“Of course, Sal,” he said at last in a deprecatory way, “you-all onderstands that when I takes to shakin’ the loads outen my six-shooter at Riley Bent, I does it offishul. An’ I’m free to say, that I was that wropped and preoccupied like with my dooties as Marshal at the time, I never thinks once of them nuptials you med’tates with Riley Bent. If I had I would have downed his pony with that last shot an’ turned him over to you. But perhaps it ain’t too late.”

It was the next afternoon. Riley Bent was reclining in his camp in the Très Hermanas. Grey, keen eyes watched him from behind a point of rocks. Suddenly a mouthful of white smoke puffed from the point of rocks, and something hard and positive broke Riley Bent’s leg just above the knee. The blow of the bullet shocked him for a moment, but the next, with a curse in his mouth, and a six-shooter in each hand, he tumbled in behind a boulder to do battle with his assailant. With the crack of the Winchester which accompanied the phenomena of smoke-puff and broken leg, came the voice of Jack Moore, Marshal.

“Hold up your hands, thar!” said Moore. “Up with ‘em; I shan’t say it twice!”

Riley Bent could not obey; he had taken ten seconds off to faint.

When he revived Jack Moore had claimed his pistols and was calmly setting the bones of the broken leg; devoting the woollen shirts in the war-bags on his saddle to be bandages, and making splints of cedar bark. These folk of the plains and mountains, far from the surgeon, often set each other’s, or, for that matter, their own bones, when a fall from a pony, or some similar catastrophe, furnishes the call.

“If you-all needed me,” observed Riley Bent peevishly, when a little later Jack Moore was engaged over bacon and flap-jacks for the sundown meal, “whatever was the matter of sayin’ so? Thisyere idee of shootin’ up a gent without notice or pow-wow is plumb onlegal. An’ I’ll gamble on it, ten to one!”

“Well!” said Jack Moore, as he deftly tossed a flap-jack in the air and caught it in the frying-pan again, “I didn’t aim to take no chances of chagrinin’ one who loves you, by lettin’ you get away. Then, ag’in, my own notion is that it might sorter hasten the bridal some. Thar’s nothin’ like a bullet in a party’s frame for makin’ him feel romantic an’ sentimental. It softens his nature a heap, an’ sets him to yearnin’ for female care.

“Which you’ve been shootin me up to be married!” responded Riley Bent in tones of disgust.

“That’s straight!” retoited Jack Moore, as he slid the last flap-jack into the invalid’s tin plate. “You’ve been pesterin’ ‘round Wagon Mound Sal ontil that lady has become wropped in you. She confides to me cold that she’s anxious to make a weddin’ of it, which is all the preliminary necessary in Arizona. You are goin’ back to Wolfville with me tomorry on a buck-board, – which will be sent on yere from the stage station, – an’ after Doc Peets goes over your laig ag’in, you an’ Wagon Mound Sal are goin’ to become man an’ wife like a landslide. You have bred hopes in that lady’s bosom, an’ you’ve got to make ‘em good. That’s all thar is to this play; an’ you don’t get your guns ag’in ontil you’re a married man.”

Jack Moore, firm, direct and decided, had a great effect in fixing the wandering fancies of Riley Bent. He thoughtfully masticated his flap-jack a moment, and then asked:

“S’pose I arches my back an’ takes to buckin’ at these yere abrupt methods in my destinies; s’pose I quits the deal cold?”

“In which eevent,” responded Jack Moore, with an air of iron confidence, “we merely convenes the Stranglers an’ hangs you for luck.”

But Riley Bent was softened and his mind made fully up. Whether it was the sentimental influence of Jack Moore’s bullet, which Doc Peets subsequently dug out; or whether Riley was touched by the fact that Wagon Mound Sal, herself, brought over the buckboard to convey him to Wolfville, may never be known. What was certain, however, was that Riley Bent came finally to the conclusion to wed. He told Wagon Mound Sal so while on the buckboard going back.

“Which it’s shorely doubtful,” said Wagon Mound Sal, “if any man is worth the trouble. An’ this yere is my busiest day, too!”

There was great rejoicing in the wareroom of the New York Store. A whole box of candles blazed gloriously from the walls. Old Man Enright gave the bride away, Benson Annie appeared to look on, while Faro Nell supported Sal as bridesmaid. As usual, in any hour of sacred need, a preacher was obtained from Tucson.