"You can gamble a handful of reds," remarked Cimarron Bill, disgustedly, "he sees it in my face. Which it'll be a lesson to me to hide myse'f the next time one of them Las Animas terrors comes bulgin' into camp, ontil Bat's added him to the list. I sh.o.r.e won't sp'ile another sech a layout by bein' prematoorly inquisitive that a-way."

"Well," returned Mr. Masterson, with whom Mr. Short and Cimarron Bill were in talk, "whether Clay was saved by spirits, or by just his own horse sense, I'm glad it ended as it did."

The chances favour the a.s.sumption that, had Mr. Masterson been up and about, the trouble would have had no beginning. In that event he would have been more or less in the company of Mr. Allison. Such a spectacle, while it might not instruct the mean intelligence of the Ground Owl, would have at least advised his caution. He would have gained therefrom some glint of Mr. Allison's position in the world, and refrained from insults which, when the latter reviewed them by the light of liquor afterwards obtained, sent him on the wretched Ground Owl's trail.

Those differences between Mr. Allison and the Ground Owl began at the Wright House breakfast table. They did not culminate, however, until late in the morning, and when, commonly, Mr. Masterson would have been abroad about his duty. But the night before had been a trying one for Mr. Masterson. He was employed until broad day in keeping Mr. McBride from slaying Bobby Gill, and never sought his blankets until an hour after dawn.

Mr. McBride had been a brother scout with Mr. Masterson in the Cheyenne wars. Later he came to Dodge, as he said, to "quiet down." In carrying out his plan of quieting down, Mr. McBride espoused and took to wife, one Bridget, who for years had been recognised as the official scold of Dodge.

In an elder day, Bridget would have graced a ducking-stool. Dodge, however, owned no such instrument of correction. Neither, save during the June rise, was there a sufficient depth of water in the Arkansas to make a ducking-stool effective. Mr. McBride following marriage lived in terror of Bridget's awful tongue, which served him right, so people said, for having been a fool.

At the end of their first wedded year, that is to say upon the third day prior to the trouble between Mr. Allison and the Ground Owl, Mr.

McBride, by some lucky thick-skull utterance as to what should be a government policy touching Cheyennes, incurred the contempt of Bridget.

The word "lucky" is employed because the contempt induced was beyond power of words to express, and Bridget became so surcharged of views derogatory to Mr. McBride that she burst a blood-vessel and died. Mr.

McBride's release left him in a pleasant daze. Being, however, a slave to the conventional, he did not laugh, but lapsed into lamentations, wound his sombrero with black and, with woe-lengthened visage, made ready for the last rites.

On the day of the funeral, it being the immemorial custom of Dodge to attend such ceremonies in a body, the house of Mr. McBride was full. Mr.

McBride felt the tribute, and his heart swelled with excusable pride. He glanced out through his tears, and counted as present the best faces of the town.

The occasion would have been forever cherished among the proudest memories of Mr. McBride, had it not been for the untoward conduct of Bobby Gill. This latter ign.o.bility was the pet barbarian of Dodge, just as Bridget had been its pet virago. Also, there had existed feud between Bridget and Bobby; they had felt for one another the jealous hate of rivals. Bridget at the mere sight of Bobby Gill was wont to uncork the vitriol of her anger. She would sear him verbally, while he replied in kind, Dodge standing by to listen and admire.

Still, Bridget was never permitted a victory over Bobby. While she could say more than he could, his observations had a cutting force beyond her genius. As Mr. Kelly-who was deep in the lore of guns-observed:

"Bridget's like a Winchester, while old Bobby's like a Sharp's. She can shoot faster than he can; but thar's more powder behind what Bobby says.

Also, he's got more muzzle velocity. An' he carries further."

"I entertains opinions similar," said Cimarron Bill, who as Aunt Nettie Dawson's nephew was no mean judge of a tirade.

As Mr. McBride was feeding that pardonable vanity chronicled and flattering himself with a review of the mourning throng, Bobby Gill appeared at the door. Bobby toed in like an Indian or a pigeon, and because he walked on the ball of his foot as does the wolf, he possessed a lurking, spying manner.

Bobby came in, his wool hat held between his fingers, in a tight roll.

Being in he began peeping and peering, right and left, and craning over intervening shoulders as though to get a glimpse of the casket. Mr.

McBride crossed over to Bobby with a step serious and slow:

"Bobby," said Mr. McBride, manner gloomly firm, "you an' Bridget never agreed, an' you'll obleege me by hittin' the street."

Bobby backed softly out. At the door, as though to vindicate the respectful innocence of his motives, he paused.

"Say, Mack," he whispered, in mingled apology and reproach, "I only jest wanted to see was she sh.o.r.e dead."

It wasn't until late in the evening, when the sad responsibilities of the day had been lifted from his mind, that Mr. McBride became a burden upon the hands of Mr. Masterson. Mr. McBride said that he'd been insulted; the memory of Bridget he averred had met with disrespect.

Thereupon he buckled on his six-shooter-which had been laid aside in funeral deference to the day-and announced an intention to hunt down Bobby Gill.

"Come, Mack!" argued Mr. Masterson, soothingly, "it isn't creditable to you-isn't creditable to Bridget."

"But, Bat," sobbed Mr. McBride, as he half-c.o.c.ked his Colt's-45, and sadly revolved the cylinder to make sure that all worked smoothly, "I've put up with a heap from Bobby-me and Bridget has-an' now I'm goin' to nacherally discontinue him a lot."

"You oughtn't to mind old Bobby," Mr. Masterson insisted. "Everybody knows he's locoed."

"If he's locoed," Mr. McBride retorted through his grief, "I'm locoed, too. Sorrow over Bridget an' the onmerited contoomely of that old profligate has sh.o.r.e left me as crazy as a woman's watch. Bat, don't stop me! Which I've sot my heart on his h'ar."

Mr. Masterson was granite. There was no shaking him off. He persuaded, commanded, explained, and gave his word that Bobby Gill should make humble amends. At last, Mr. McBride, realising the inevitable, surrendered, and promised to be at peace.

"For all that, Bat," concluded Mr. McBride, with a gulp, "old Bobby's queered them obsequies for me. I can never look back on 'em now without regret."

It was the bluish dawn before Mr. Masterson felt justified in leaving the widowed Mr. McBride. He was so worn with his labours that he made no more profound arrangements for slumber than casting aside his coat and kicking off his boots. A moment later he was as sound asleep as a tree.

Mr. Masterson had been asleep four hours, when Jack broke in upon him with the rude word that Mr. Allison had "turned in to tree the town."

"You can nail him from the window," puffed Jack, who was out of breath with hurry. "You haven't time to pull on your boots and go down. Your best hold is to get the drop on him from the window, an' when he makes a break, cut loose."

Mr. Masterson sprang from the blankets and caught up his Sharp's for the honour of Dodge. To permit Mr. Allison to give the town an unchecked shaking up would mean immortal disgrace. For all the hurry, however, Mr.

Masterson had time to admire the military sagacity of Jack.

"Some day you'll make a marshal, Jack," quoth Mr. Masterson, and the "cluck-cluck!" of the buffalo gun as he c.o.c.ked it served to punctuate the remark.

Some cynic, with a purpose to injure that commonwealth only equalled by his sour carelessness of truth, once said that Indiana was settled by folk who had started for the West, but lost their nerve. This is apparent slander, and not to be believed of a people who later endowed us with Ade, Tarkington, David Graham Phillips and Ben Hur. The one disgrace traceable to Indiana is that in some unguarded moment she gave birth to the Ground Owl, and sent him forth to vex the finer sentiments of Dodge. Also the Ground Owl, with his insolences, imbecilities, and feeble timidities, was the harder to bear since he never once offered the outraged public, in whose side he was the thorn, an opening to be rid of him by customary lead and powder means.

The Ground Owl had come to Dodge in fear and trembling. He did not want to come, but for reasons never fathomed he couldn't remain in Indiana.

It was a wholesale firm in Chicago that asked Mr. Wright to employ him as salesman in his store; and Mr. Wright, acting after those reckless business methods that obtain in the West and are a never flagging wellspring of trouble, consented without waiting to see the Ground Owl or estimate his length and breadth and depth as a communal disaster. For this blinded procedure Mr. Wright was often sorely blamed.

And yet to Mr. Masterson, rather than to Mr. Wright, should be charged the prolonged infliction of the Ground Owl's presence. Once installed behind the counters of Mr. Wright, the Ground Owl lost no time in seeking Mr. Masterson. Every Dodgeian wore a gun, and this display of force excited the Ground Owl vastly. The latent uncertainties of his surroundings alarmed him. Dodge was a volcano; an eruption might occur at any time! The air to-day was wholesome; to-morrow it might be as full of lead as the Ozarks! In this fashion vibrated the hair-hung fears of the Ground Owl, and with a cheek of chalk he sought out Mr. Masterson to canva.s.s ways and means to best conserve his safety. Mr. Masterson, who could hardly grasp the notion of personal cowardice on the part of any man, was shocked. However, he made no comment, evinced not the least surprise, but asked:

"You're afraid some of the boys'll shoot you up?"

"In some moment of excitement, you know!" returned the Ground Owl, quaveringly.

"And you want to know what to do to be saved?"

"Yes," said the Ground Owl, attention on the strain.

"Then never pack a gun."

Mr. Masterson explained to the Ground Owl that to slay an unarmed man, whatever the provocation, was beyond an etiquette. The West would never sink to such vulgar depths. No one, however locoed of drink, would make a target of the Ground Owl while the latter wasn't heeled.

"Of course," observed Mr. Masterson, by way of qualification, "you're not to go hovering about scrimmages in which you've no personal concern.

In that case, some of the boys might get confused and rub you out erroneously."

That golden secret of how to grow old in the West went deep into the aspen soul of the Ground Owl. As its direct fruit he would as soon take a.r.s.enic as belt on a pistol. There was a faulty side, however, to the Masterson suggestion. In time, realising an immunity, the Ground Owl grew confident; and the confidence bred insolence, and a smart weakness for insulting persiflage, that were among the most exasperating features of a life in Dodge while the Ground Owl lasted.

It is a revenge that cowards often take. Make them safe, and you are apt to make them unbearable. They will offer outrage when they know there can be no reprisal. Thus they humour themselves with the impression of a personal courage on their coward parts, and prevent self-contempt from overwhelming them.

The Ground Owl owned another name-a rightful name. It was Bennington Du Pont, and he capitalized the "Pont." The name was thrown away on Dodge, for Cimarron Bill rechristened him the Ground Owl.

"What may I call you?" Cimarron had demanded. Then, as though explaining a rudeness: "The reason I inquire is that, if you-all continues to grow on me, I might want to ask you to take a seegyar."

"Bennington Du Pont," faltered the Ground Owl. "My name is Bennington Du Pont."

"Which you'll pardon me," returned Cimarron Bill, severely, "if yereafter I prefers to alloode to you as the Ground Owl."