Now, whatever do you reckon a saint who knows his business is goin'

to say to that? Yere stands this conceited Laredo party recommendin'

for admission on high a Mexican he's he'pin' to lynch as not good enough for Texas. If them powers above ain't allowin' that prayin'

party's got his nerve with him, they ain't givin' the case the study which is sh.o.r.e its doo.'

"'Which I don't know!' says Tutt. 'I don't accept them views nohow.

Prayin' is like goin' blind in poker. All you do is hope a whole lot. If the angels takes stock in your applications, well an' good.

If they don't, you can gamble your spurs they're plenty able to protect themse'fs. All you can do is file them supplications. The angels lets 'em go or turns 'em down accordin'. Now, I holds that this Laredo sport who prays that time does right. Thar's nothin'

like a showdown; an' his play, since he volunteers to ride herd on the Greaser's soul, is to do all he knows, an' win out if he can.'

"'That's whatever!' says Dan Boggs, who's listenin' full of interest, an' who allows he'll b.u.t.t in on the talk. 'I j'ines with Tutt in this. My notion is, when it comes a gent's turn to pray, let him pray, an' not go pesterin' himse'f with vain surmises as to how it's goin' to strike them hosts on high. You can wager you ain't goin' to ride 'round Omnipotence none. You can draw up to the layout of life, an' from the cradle to the grave, you'll not pick up no sleepers on Providence that a-way. Now, once, when I'm over across the Mogallon Plateau, I--'

"But we never does hear what happens to Boggs that time over across the Mogallon Plateau; for when he's that far along, one of the n.i.g.g.e.rs from the corral comes scurryin' up an' asks Texas Thompson does he lend his pinto pony an hour back to the party who's deef an'

dumb.

"'Which I sh.o.r.ely don't,' says Texas. 'You don't aim to tell me none he's done got away with my pinto hoss?'

"The n.i.g.g.e.r says he does. He announces that mebby an hour before, this party comes over to the corral, makes a motion or two with his hands, cinches the hull onto the pinto, an' lines out for the northeast on the Silver City trail. He's been plumb outen sight for more'n half an hour.

"'Which I likes that!' says Texas Thompson. 'For broad, open-air, noon-day hoss-stealin', I offers even money this dumb gent's enterprise is ent.i.tled to the red ticket.'

"Which we ain't standin' thar talkin' long. If thar's one reform to which the entire West devotes itse'f, it's breakin' people of this habit of hoss-stealin'. It ain't no time when four of us is off on the dumb party's trail, an' half of that is consoomed in takin' a drink.

"Whyever be gents in the West so sot ag'in hoss-thieves? Son, you abides in a region at once pop'lous an' fertile. But if you was to put in three months on a cactus desert, with water holes fifty miles apart, it would begin to glimmer on you as to what it means to find yourse'f afoot. It would come over you like a landslide that the party who steals your hoss would have improved your condition in life a heap if he'd played his hand out by shootin' a hole through your heart.

"No, I ain't in no sech hurry to hang people for standin' in on some killin'. Thar's two sides to a killin'; an' if deceased is framed up with a gun all reg'lar at the time, it goes a long way toward exculpatin' of the sport who outlives him. But thar ain't only one side to hoss-stealin', an' the sooner the party's strung up or plugged, the sooner thar's a vict'ry for the right.

"As I remarks, it ain't two minutes when thar's four of us gone swarmin' off after the dumb man who's got Texas Thompson's pinto pony. From the tracks, he ain't makin' no play to throw us off, for he maintains a straight-away run down the Silver City trail, an'

never leaves it or doubles once.

"Runnin' of the dumb man down don't turn out no arduous task. It's doo mainly, however, because the pinto sticks a cactus thorn in its hoof an' goes lame in less time tharafter than it takes to turn a jack.

"'Hands up,' says Texas, gettin' the drop as we swings up on the deef an' dumb foogitive.

"But thar's no need of sech preecautions, as the dumb party ain't packin' no weepons--not so much as a knife.

"Thar's nothin' to say, no talk to make, when we takes him. Texas hefts him outen the saddle an' ropes his elbows behind with a lariat.

"'What do you-all su'gest, gents?' says Texas. 'I s'pose now the deecorous way is to go on with this yere aggressive an' energetic person to them pinon trees ahead, an' hang him some?'

"'Which thar's no doubts floatin' in anybody's mind on that subject,' says Dan Boggs, 'but I'd sh.o.r.e admire to know who this party is, an' where he's headin' to. I dislikes to stretch the neck of strangers that a-way; an' if thar's any gent, now, who can ask this yere person who he is, an' what he's got to say, I'd take it as a favor, personal, if he'd begin makin' of the needed motions.' "But thar ain't none of us can inst.i.toote them gestures; an' when the dumb man, on his side, puts up a few bluffs with his fingers, it's a heap too complicated for us as a means of makin' statements. "'I sh.o.r.e couldn't tell,' says Dave Tutt, as he sets watchin' the dumb man's play, 'whether he's callin' us names or askin' for whiskey.'

"'Which if we'd thought to bring some stationery,' says Texas, after we-all goes through our war-bags in vain, 'we might open some successful negotiations with this person. As it is, however, we're plumb up ag'inst it, an' I reckon, Boggs, he'll have to hang without you an' him bein' formally introdooced.' "'Jest the same, I wishes,'

says Dave Tutt, 'that Doc Peets or Enright was along. They'd sh.o.r.e dig somethin' outen this citizen.' "'Mebby he's got papers in his wamus,' says Boggs, 'which onfolds concernin' him. Go through him, Texas, anyhow: "All Texas can find on the dumb man is one letter; the postmark: when we comes to decipher the same, shows he only gets it that mornin'. Besides this yere single missif that a-way, thar ain't a sc.r.a.p of nothin' else to him; nor yet no wealth.

"'Tell us what's in the letter,' says Texas, turnin' the doc.u.ment over to Boggs. 'Read her out, Dan; I'd play the hand, but I has to ride herd on the culprit.'

"'I can't read it,' says Boggs, handin' the note to Tutt; 'I can't read readin', let alone writin'. But I'm free to say, even without hearin' that doc.u.ment none, that I sh.o.r.ely hesitates to string this party up. Bein' tongueless, an' not hearin' a lick more'n adders, somehow he keeps appealin' to me like he's locoed.'

"'Which if you ever has the pleasure to play some poker with him,'

says Tutt, as he onfolds the paper, 'like I do three nights ago, you wouldn't be annoyin' yourse'f about his bein' locoed. I finds him plenty deep an' wary, not to say plumb crafty. Another thing, it's plain he not only gets letters, but we-all sees him write about his drinks to Black Jack, the Red Light barkeep, an' sim'lar plays.'

"By this time, Tutt's got the letter open, an' is gettin' ready to read. The dumb man's been standin' thar all the time, with his arms roped behind him, an' lookin' like hope has died; an' also like he ain't carin' much about it neither. When Tutt turns open the letter, I notices the tears kind o' start in his eyes, same as if he's some affected sentimental.

"'Which this yere commoonication is plenty brief,' says Tutt, as he rums his eye over it. 'She's dated "Casa Grande," an' reads as follows, to wit:

"'Dear Ben: Myra is dyin'; come at once. A." "'Now, whoever do you reckon this yere Myra is?' asks Tutt, lookin' 'round. 'she's cashin'

in, that's obvious; an' I'm puttin' it up she's mighty likely a wife or somethin' of this yere dumb party.' "'That's it,' says Boggs. 'He gets this word that Myra's goin' over the big divide, an' bein' he's gone broke entire on faro-bank, he plunges over to the corral an'

rustles Thompson's hoss. Onder sech circ.u.mstances, I ain't none sh.o.r.e he's respons'ble. I take-it thar ain't much doubt but Myra's his wife that a-way, in which event my idee is he only borrys Thompson's pinto. Which nacherally, as I freely concedes, this last depends on Myra's bein' his wife.' "'Oh, not necessarily,' says Texas Thompson; 'thar's a heap of wives who don't jestify hosstealiil' a little bit. Now I plays it open, Myra's this dumb gent's mother, an' on sech a theery an' that alone, I removes the lariat from his arms an' throws him loose. But don't try to run no wife bluff on me; I've been through the wife question with a blazin'

pine-knot in my hand, an' thar's nothin' worth while concealed tharin.' "'Which I adopts the ainendiricnt,' says Boggs, 'an' on second thought, I strings my chips with Texas, that this yere Myra's his mother. I've got the money that says so.' "'At any rate,' says Tutt, 'from all I sees, I reckons it's the general notion that we calls this thing a draw. We can't afford to go makin' a preecedent of hangin' a gent for hoss-stealin' who's only doin' his best to be present at this Myra's fooneral, whoever she may be. It's a heap disgustin', however, that we can't open up a talk with this party.

Which I now notes by the address his name is McIntyre.' "An' so it turns out that in no time, from four gents who's dead set to hang this dumb man as a boss-thief, we turns into a sympathetic outfit which is diggin' holes for his escape. It all dovetails in with what my scientist says this mornin' about them moral epidemics,' an'

things goin' that a-way in waves. For, after all, Myra or no Myra, this yere dumb man steals that pinto hoss. "However, whether it's right or wrong, we turns the dumb man free. Not only that, but Boggs gets out of the saddle an' gives him his pony to pursoo them rambles with. "'I gives it to him because it's the best pony in the outfit,'

says Boggs, lookin' savage at us, as he puts the bridle in the dumb gent's hands. 'It can run like a antelope, that pony can; an' that's why I donates it to this dumb party. Once he's started, even if we- all changes our moods, he's sh.o.r.e an' safe away for good. Moreover, a gent whose mother's dyin', can't have too good a hoss. If he don't step on no more cactus, an' half rides, he's doo to go chargin' into Casa Grande before they loses Myra, easy.'"

CHAPTER XI.

How Prince Hat Got Help.

"Come yere, you boy Torn." It was the Old Cattleman addressing his black satellite. "Stampede up to their rooms of mine an' fetch me my hat; the one with the snakeskin band. My head ain't feelin' none too well, owin' to the barkeep of this hostelry changin' my drinks, an'

that rattlesnake band oughter absorb them aches an' clar'fy my roominations a heap. Now, vamos!" he continued, as Tom seemed to hesitate, "the big Stetson with the snakeskin onto it.

"An' how be you stackin' up yours'ef?" observed the old gentleman, turning to me as his dark agent vanished in quest of head-bear.

"Which you sh.o.r.ely looks as worn an' weary as a calf jest branded.

It'll do you good to walk a lot; better come with me. I sort o'

orig'nates the notion that I'll go swarmin' about permiscus this mornin' for a hour or so, an cirk'late my blood, an' you-all is welcome to attach yourse'f to the scheme. Thar's nothin' like exercise, that a-way, as Grief Mudlow allows when he urges his wife to take in washin'. You've done heard of Grief Mudlow, the laziest maverick in Tennessee?"

I gave my word that not so much as a rumor of the person Mudlow had reached me. My friend expressed surprise. It was now that the black boy Tom came up with the desired hat. Tom made his approach with a queer backward and forward shuffle, crooning to himself the while:

"Rain come wet me, sun come dry me.

Take keer, white man, don't come nigh me." "Stop that double- shufflin' an' wing dancin'," remonstrated the old gentleman severely, as he took the hat and fixed it on his head. "I don't want no frivolities an' merry-makin's 'round me. Which you're always jumpin' an' dancin' like one of these yere snapjack bugs. I ain't aimin' at pompousness none, but thar's a sobriety goes with them years of mine which I proposes to maintain if I has to do it with a blacksnake whip. So you-all boy Tom, you look out a whole lot! I'm goin' to break you of them hurdy-gurdy tendencies, if I has to make you wear hobbles an' frale the duds off your back besides."

Tom smiled toothfully, yet in confident fashion, as one who knows his master and is not afraid.

"So you never hears of Grief Mudlow?" he continued, as we strolled abroad on our walk. "I reckons mebby you has, for they sh.o.r.e puts Grief into a book once, commemoratin' of his laziness. How lazy is he? Well, son, he could beat Mexicans an' let 'em deal. He's raised away off cast, over among the k.n.o.bs of old Knox County, Grief is, an' he's that lazy he has to leave it on account of the hills.

"'She's too noomerous in them steeps an' deecliv'ties,' says Grief.

'What I needs is a landscape where the prevailin' feacher is the hor'zontal. I was sh.o.r.ely born with a yearnin' for the level ground.' An' so Grief moves his camp down on the river bottoms, where thar ain't no hills.

"He's that mis'rable idle an' shiftless, this yere Grief is, that once he starts huntin' an' then decides he won't. Grief lays down by the aige of the branch, with his moccasins towards the water. It starts in to rain, an' the storm prounces down on Grief like a mink: on a settin' hen. One of his pards sees him across the branch an'

thinks he's asleep. So he shouts an' yells at him.

"'Whoopee, Grief!' he sings over to where Grief's layin' all quiled up same as a water-moccasin snake, an' the rain peltin' into him like etarnal wrath; 'wake up thar an' crawl for cover!'

"'I'm awake,' says Grief.

"'Well, why don't you get outen the rain?'

"'I'm all wet now an' the rain don't do no hurt,' says Grief.