Those old days are golden days! True, a centipede now and then makes a promenade of one's slumbering countenance; or a stinging lizard employs his sting upon one with all of the burning first effects that attend being shot with a Colt's-45; or some sleepy rattlesnake insinuates himself into one's unbidden blankets, having a plan to bunk in with one and a settled resolve to give battle if refused an honest half of the bed. But these adventures overtake one only in hottest summer weather, and this seasonal fact so narrows interest that Dodge seldom wears them on its mind.

In those old golden days Dodge is a democracy. Caste does not occur; no hill, no hollow of human inequality ruffles the bland surface of the body politic. There is but one aristocracy and that is the aristocracy of courage, but one t.i.tle of n.o.bility and that the name of "a square man."

And Dodge can exercise forbearance. Your cowboy, uplifted of Old Jordan, may ride his pony through the streets and spur it to the pace of meteors. But he must not ride it upon the sidewalks, for that would mean insult to the dignity and defiance of the power of Dodge. He may freely empty his midnight pistol, so that he empty it at the moon. But he must not enfilade the causeways or turn its muzzle upon any house of entertainment, however much the latter has offended. In brief, he may wax either vigorous or vociferous to what pitch best suits his fancy, saving this that his vigours and vociferations must not be transacted at the public's expense. Dodge, too, takes cognisance of an impulse and construes a motive. When Palo Duro Pete, from his seat in the Dodge Opera House, arises in a torrent of tears, pulls his six-shooter and slams away at Miss Witherspoon, while that cantatrice is singing "Home, Sweet Home," Dodge wholly understands the sobbing, shooting Palo Duro.

Had he ridden away on another's pony, or sought to shift the t.i.tle to a mule by heating a running iron and changing its brand, Dodge would not have attributed the act to any excess of emotion. It would have recognised a crime, and dealt coldly with Palo Duro as with a criminal taken in the felon fact. On the Opera House occasion, however, it is plain that Palo Duro has opened upon Miss Witherspoon in on ecstasy of admiration. The shot is in its way a compliment, and meant for the exaltation of that celebrated soprano. The weeping Palo Duro is moved, not of murderous impulse, but a spirit of adoration that can only explain itself with a gun. Dodge knows this. Dodge feels it, admits it; and since Palo Duro works no harm with his testimonial, Dodge believes it has fully corrected him when it drags him from the theatre, and "buffaloes" him into a more week-a-day and less gala frame of mind.

While Dodge is capable of toleration, it can also draw the line. When Mr. Webster accepts a customer's wooden leg as security for drinks, and sets the pledge behind the Alamo bar, it does much to endanger his standing. Mr. Webster averts a scandal only by returning the wooden leg; and at that Cimarron Bill has already given his opinion.

"Any gent," observes Cimarron Bill, "who'll let a party hock personal fragments of himse'f that a-way for licker, is onfit to drink with a n.i.g.g.e.r or eat with a dog," and Dodge in the silence with which it receives this announcement, is held by many as echoing the sentiment expressed.

Those old days be golden days, and the good citizenry of Dodge are at their generous best. And this is the rule of conduct: Should you go broke, everybody comes to your rescue; should you marry, everybody rejoices at the wedding; should a child be born unto you to call you "father," everybody drinks with you; should you fall ill, everybody sits up with you; should you die, everybody comes to the funeral-that is, everybody who is out of jail.

Rattlesnake Sanders, forgiven by Mr. Kelly and restored to his rightful art of cows as theretofore practiced by him along the White Woman, had frequent flour, bacon, and saleratus reason to visit Dodge. Being in Dodge, he dined, supped and breakfasted at the Wright House, and it was at that place of regale he met Miss Barndollar. The young lady was a waitress, and her intimates called her "Calamity Carry" for the crockery that she broke. Her comings in and going out were marked of many a crash, as a consignment of dishes went grandly to the floor. But help was spa.r.s.e and hard to get, and the Wright House management overlooked these mishaps, hoping that Miss Barndollar, when she had enlarged her experience, would be capable of better things.

On the day that Rattlesnake Sanders first beheld Miss Barndollar, he came into the dining-room of the Wright House seeking recuperation from the fatigues of a 60-mile ride. When he had drawn his chair to the table, and disposed of his feet so that the spurs which graced his heels did not mutually interfere, Miss Barndollar came and stood at his shoulder.

"Roast beef, b'iled buffalo tongue, plover potpie, fried antelope steak, an' baked salt hoss an' beans," observed Miss Barndollar in a dreamy sing-song. The Wright House did not print its menu, and the bill of fare was rehea.r.s.ed by the waitresses to the wayfarer within its walls.

At the sound of Miss Barndollar's voice, Rattlesnake Sanders looked up.

He made no other response, but seemed to drift away in visions born of a contemplation of the graces of Miss Barndollar.

This last was the more odd since Miss Barndollar, in looks, was astray from any picture of loveliness. Perhaps Cimarron Bill when later he discussed with Mr. Short the loves of Miss Barndollar and Rattlesnake Sanders, fairly set forth the state of affairs.

"Which of course," remarked Cimarron Bill, gallantly cautious, "thar was never the lady born I'd call ugly; but speakin' of this Calamity Carry, I'm driven to remark that she has a disadvantageous face."

With Rattlesnake Sanders it was the old, old story of love at first sight. His ideals were not those of the critical Cimarron Bill, and he beheld with different eyes. In those high cheekbones, irregular nose, wide mouth, and freckled face he discovered charms. Miss Barndollar to the besotted Rattlesnake was a lamp of beauty. The smitten one forgot his hunger, forgot the list of edibles that Miss Barndollar had told off, and sat tongue-tied.

Life is replete of such dulcet mysteries-the mystery of Miss Barndollar's ugliness and Rattlesnake Sander's instant love. It was such to inspire the late farmer philosopher and almanac maker when he musingly related the paradox:

"They do say Love is blind, but I'm dinged if some fellers can't see more in their gals than I can."

Miss Barndollar, waiting to be instructed as to the appet.i.te of Rattlesnake Sanders, grew impatient with his rapt staring. She repeated her announcement:

"Roast beef, b'iled buffalo tongue, plover potpie, fried antelope steak, an' baked salt hoss an' beans!"

Sixty seconds later, the fatuous Rattlesnake still silently staring, Miss Barndollar broke a bread-plate on his head and went her way.

It was like clenching the driven nail-that bread-plate episode. The jolt to his faculties crystallised the love in Rattlesnake which before had been in solution, and he became Miss Barndollar's slave.

And yet it is no more than justice to the lady to explain that her bread-plate descent upon the spellbound Rattlesnake was the fruit of a misunderstanding. Being unaware of what soft sentiments she had inspired, Miss Barndollar conceived his glances to have been bestowed upon her in mockery. This was shown when she pa.s.sed the cashier as she swept from the room.

"What was the trouble, Calamity?" asked the cashier, who had witnessed Miss Barndollar's reproof, without knowing its cause. "What did that jayhawker do?"

"Which he stared at me," replied the outraged Miss Barndollar. "I'll teach sech horned toads that if my face is freckled, I'm a lady all the same."

When and where and how the headlong Rattlesnake found time and place to woo Miss Barndollar went unexplained to Dodge. Its earliest news was when the whisper leaped from lip to lip that Miss Barndollar and Rattlesnake were to wed.

"Is that so, Rattlesnake?" asked Mr. Short, referring to the event as promised by gossip. "Is it straight? You'll excuse me, Rattlesnake, if I adds that I hopes an' trusts it is. Dodge wouldn't stand no triflin'

with the ontried heart of Calamity, an' if you-all is simply flirtin'

with the affections of that pore girl I wouldn't fill your moccasins for a small clay farm."

"Flirtin'," retorted the scandalised Rattlesnake. "Luke, you insults me!

Calamity an' me is goin' to hook up followin' the spring round-up."

After making this declaration, Rattlesnake, in a kind of ecstatic hysteria at the glowing future before him, withdrew to a corner of the Long Branch and lapsed into a dance which had its rise with the Cheyennes, and was known among its copper coloured authors as the Love Dance of the Catamounts.

While Rattlesnake Sanders was thus relieving his soul, Cimarron Bill, who was present, regarded his mad doings with a dubious brow.

"That Rattlesnake person's locoed!" said Cimarron, turning sadly to Mr.

Short. "I can't read signal smokes an' don't know the meanin' of signs if that maverick don't wind up in a crazy house, cuttin' paper dolls."

"He ain't locoed," explained Mr. Short, with a confidence born of experiences that went beyond those of Cimarron Bill. "That Rattlesnake boy's in love. They allers ghost-dance an' go pirootin' 'round eediotic that a-way."

Cimarron Bill was not convinced, and took later opportunity to say as much to Mr. Masterson. He urged that the nuptials threatened by Miss Barndollar and Rattlesnake Sanders be suppressed. Cimarron insisted that as Sheriff of Ford it was Mr. Masterson's business to interfere.

"Which the way I regyards these proceedin's," explained Cimarron, "they're a menace to the peace of Dodge. Them two people'll fight worse'n McBride an' Bridget did. You ought to stop 'em, Bat."

"How'd you stop 'em?" returned Mr. Masterson. "You can stop folks shooting one another, but you can no more stop 'em marryin' one another than you can stop a cyclone."

"Just the same," said Cimarron, stubbornly, "it's your dooty to try."

This conversation took place in the door of Mr. Kelly's Alhambra. While Mr. Masterson and the gloomy Cimarron were talking, Miss Barndollar and Rattlesnake Sanders came down the street. As the pair arrived opposite Mr. Masterson and Cimarron, the infatuated Rattlesnake jocosely placed his arm about Miss Barndollar's waist. Whereupon that virgin coyly bestowed upon Rattlesnake a resounding blow.

"I'll teach ye!" cried Miss Barndollar, meanwhile giving Rattlesnake an arch look, "I'll teach ye whose waist you're tamperin' with! I'll nacherally swat ye ev'ry time y' do it."

"Ain't she got sperit!" exclaimed Rattlesnake, winking a blissful eye at Mr. Masterson. "Thar's nothin' Texas about her! She's due to grade as cornfed, my Calamity is, or I'm a shorthorn!"

The happy pair continued onward to Mr. Wright's store and set about pricing pots and kettles and what other bric-a-brac may become the basis of a primitive housekeeping.

"Thar!" said Cimarron Bill, decisively. "You can now tell how that eediot Rattlesnake ain't cap'ble of se'f-protection. It's not only ag'in your oaths of office, but it's inhooman not to interfere. Before them two has been married a week, that Calamity girl'll t'ar into pore Rattlesnake with her ten nails an' make saddlestrings of him."

"That's your view, Cimarron," retorted Mr. Masterson. "Now to my mind Rattlesnake and Calamity'll get along as peaceful as two pups in a basket. Besides, speaking of public interest, do you know how many inhabitants Dodge has lost during the official year?"

"No," said Cimarron Bill, "I don't. But whatever has that got to do with Calamity ropin' up this yere innocent Rattlesnake?"

"There were seven to get b.u.mped off," continued Mr. Masterson, disregarding the question, "exclusive of McBride's Bridget. Seven; and I don't count Mexicans and non-resident cowboys who came in with the herds and expired in the natural course of festivals which they, themselves, inaugurated. Seven! That's knocking a hole in Dodge's census."

"But why," protested the honest Cimarron, "should you-all punish Rattlesnake for that? He don't down any of them seven. He's pulled his gun jest once this year, an' then he only busts the crust on Kell, an'

no harm done."

"No harm!" interjected Mr. Masterson, severely.

"Whatever was the harm?" retorted the obstinate Cimarron. "Kell's inside thar runnin' his joint, ain't he? Besides the fault was Kell's.

Rattlesnake rings in a cold hand on Kell, as a gent every now an' then will, an' Kell taunts him about it. If Kell's goin' to comment on a cold hand he'd ought to do it with his six-shooter. To go tantalisin'

Rattlesnake about it with his mouth that a-way, makes what I calls a case of crim'nal carelessness, an' leaves Kell responsible. But whether it does or not, why rooin Rattlesnake's life with this Calamity lady because of them other seven? Thar's neither jestice nor reason in it."

"Cimarron," replied Mr. Masterson, disgustedly, "you're forever roping at the wrong steer. There's no ruin in the business. This is the idea: We lose seven. Now when Rattlesnake and Calamity are married, they may do something to repair our loss. If they were to jump in and have seven children, that would make it an even break, wouldn't it?"

"Still," contended Cimarron Bill, "I don't see why the losses of Dodge should be saddled onto Rattlesnake. It ain't right to heap burdens on him that, properly regyarded, belongs to the commoonity."