Wolfville Days

ud of

hty profuse. Four or five mule skinners has their long limber sixteen-foot whips, which is loaded with dust-shot from butt to tip, an' is crackin' of 'em at a mark. I've seen one of these yere mule experts with the most easy, delicate, delib'rate twist of the wrist make his whip squirm in the air like a hurt snake; an' then he'll straighten

Navajo you downs over on

s stealin' my Alizan hoss at the time, an' I

equent, 'that Injun they calls "Pickles" is his nephy, an' you wants to look out a whole lot. I

ch other an hour; an' I'll post you-all private, if he goes to play hoss a l

oon when Pickles com

ner is insultin'; 'been makin' it sm

I b'lieves I sees that Navajo hoss-thief of an oncle of yours when I'm down thar last.

on B'ar Creek last spring, an' I don't count his nose among 'em none. Mebby he has an engagement, an' can't get th

w sights is-coarse as sandburrs; you could drag a dog through 'em-an' I holds too high. I fetches the stranger, "bang!" right back of his left y'ear, an' the bullet comes outen his right y'ear. You can bet the limit, I never am so displeased with my shootin'. The idee of me holdin' four foot too high in a hundred yards! I never is that embarrassed! I'm so plumb disgusted an' ashamed, I don't go near that equestrian stranger till after I finishes my grub. Alizan, he comes up all shiverin' an

he's one of my fam'ly, it would be your ha'r on his bridle. It must be

yin' each other close an' interested, that a-way, an' the rest of us

I must saddle an' stampede out of yere. I wants to see that old villyun, Tom Cooke, an' I don't reckon

rs before I go wanderin' off-so don't go to makin' no friendly, quiet waits for me nowhere along the r

hin' for things on the ground, snatchin' off Mexicans' hats, an' jumpin' his pony over wagon tongues an' camp fixin's. All the time he's whoopin'

at Jack. But he's too far back, or thar's too many 'round Jack, or Pickles can't get the distance, or something; for he don't throw it none,

tch that rope once. Bein' as the news concerns you, personal, I allows it's nothin' more'n friendly to tell

in', Pickles swings down an' leave

e onrespectful tones wherein you talks of Injun

o pay a bounty for their skelps, but I states beliefs that a hoss-stealin', skulkin' mongrel of a half-breed is lower yet; I holdin' he ain't even people-ain't nothin', in fact. But to change the subjeck, as well

in' plumb through or over, an' at the last second he quits an' flinches an' weakens. Son, it ain't Pickles' fault. Thar ain't no breed of gent but the pure white who can play a desp'rate deal dow

ou to come feed with me. I'll have Mis

Jack, 'if it ain't no

camp-house, t'other side the corral, an' you-all can then be as sociable an' smoky as you please. Which you'll be alone over thar, an' can conduct the reepa

' side. They goes in alone an' shets the door. In about five minutes, thar's some emphatic remarks by two six-shooters, an' we-all goes chargin' to find out. We discovers J

ke Pickles is hung

t stand the strain. He gets nervous an' grabs for his gun; the muzzle catches onder the table-top, an' thar's his bullet all

k couldn't refoose. He would have lost both skelp an' standin' if he had. Which, however, if this yere 'limination of Pic