"Wall, I should _re_mark. Them short-horns is junin' round so thick back thar a stray long-horn hain't no sorta show to git to know straight up from sideways 'fore he gits plumb lost in them deep canons whar all th'

sign is tramped out an' thar's no trees to blaze for back-tracking yourself.

"What they-all gits to live on is the mysteriousest mystery to me; don't raise or grow nothin'; got no gra.s.s, or cows to graze on her ef they had her. 'Course some of them's got spondulix their daddies left them, an'

can buy; th' rest--wall, mebbe so th' rest is jest nachally cannibiles, an' eats up each other."

And how nearly Curly was right about the "cannibiles"--at least, metaphorically--he doubtless never learned.

"But, Curly," I asked, "didn't you have any fun? Must have hit up the theaters a few, didn't you, eh!"

"Wall, I should say I sh.o.r.e did," he replied. "I sh.o.r.e went to a the-_a_-ter, but she didn't get my funny-bone busy none."

"Why, Curly," I asked, "how's that?"

"Wall, you see it's thisaway. When you turned me loose down to th'

stockyards, I axed th' commission man what was th' ring-tailedest lally-cooler of a hotel in town, an' he tells me she's th' Palmer House.

"Then I ropes a kid an' hobbles him with four bits long enough to run me through th' milling herd of short-horns as fer as th' Palmer.

"On th' way I stops to a store an' buys a new hat, an' a pair o'

high-heel boots, an' a new suit, shirt, an' red handkerchief, an' a little ol' humany war sack with a handle on her, an' inter her I puts my belt an' spurs.

"Then, when I gets fixed up jest like them city folks, I pikes along to th' Palmer, an' in I goes.

"An' she was a sh.o.r.e lally-cooler all right! More prittys about th'

fixin' up o' that house that I'd allowed anything but a woman could pack.

"Wall, when I got in I axed for Mr. Palmer, an' a little feller in sorta soldier-bra.s.s-b.u.t.ton-clothes runs me up to a little close pen with a fence round her slicker than airy bar in Fort Worth--all gla.s.s an' shiny wood an' dandy stones. In that thar pen was a quick-talkin', smart-aleck feller, with a di'mond big as a engin' head-light staked out in th'

middle of his bald-faced shirt.

"That feller sh.o.r.e rubbed my hair th' wrong way th' minute he shot his mouth off, with:

"'Wall, what kin I do for you, young feller?'

"'_You_ cain't do a ding thing for me, Mr. Man,' I ups an' tells him.

'Hain't got nairy business with pikers like you-all. I don't git to Chicago often, but when I do I plays with nothin' but blue chips, an'

bets th' limit every whirl.'

"'Wall, what do you want, anyway?' he jerks out.

"'Want to see Mr. Palmer; got some p'rticular business with him,' says I.

"'Sorry, sir,' says he, 'Mr. Palmer ain't around this time of day. Is your business with him private?'

"'I reckon she _are_ private,' says I; 'want to see him an' find out ef I kin git to stay all night in this yere _ho_tel of his'n.'

"An' I reckon about that time that thar smart aleck must o' thought of somethin' powerful funny that'd happened lately, for right thar he broke out laughin' fit to kill his fool self--jest nachally laughed till he like to died.

"When finally he comes to, he up an' says:

"'Why, I _sometimes_ attend to business like that for Mr. Palmer; guess I can fix you. Here, write your name down there.'

"An' he whirls round in front of me a whopper of a big book that 'peared to have a lot other fellers' names in. She sh.o.r.e looked s'spicious to me, an' I says:

"'Now see here, Mr. Man, my name don't draw no big lot of money, but she sh.o.r.ely don't get fastened to any dociments I don't _sabe_.'

"Then that blasted idiot thought o' somethin' else so plumb funny he lites in laughin' agin till he nigh busts.

"When he gits out o' his system all the laugh she cain't hold easy, he tells me th' big book is jest nothin' but a tally they use to count you in when you comes to stay to th' hotel an' to count you out when you goes.

"That didn't look onreasonable none to me, so I says:

"'Son, she goes.'

"An' when he hands me a writin' tool, not noticin' she wa'n't a pencil, I sticks her in my mouth to git her ready to write good, an' gits my dod-burned mouth so full of ink I reckon 'tain't all out yet; an' while I was writin' in th' book, 'Stonewall Jackson Kip, Deadman Ranch, Nebraska,' Mr. Man he slips off behind a big safe and empties out a few more laughs he couldn't git to hold longer.

"An' does you know, ol' man, this mornin' I been gittin' a sort of a s'spicion that Palmer piker was laughin' at me inkin' my mouth, maybe; blamed lucky I didn't see it then, or I'd sh.o.r.e leaded him a few.

"Wall, when Mr. Man had got done _ex_aminin' my turkey tracks in the book, he gits a key an' comes back, hits a bell, an' hollers, 'Front!'

Then, when one o' them little soldier-b.u.t.ton fellers comes runnin', an'

th' piker pa.s.ses him th' key an' sings out, 'Gentleman to No. 1492!' th'

kid he makes a dive for my war sack. But you bet your _alce_ I grabs him _p.r.o.nto_, an' says:

"'See here, son, they ain't more'n about two million worth o' valuables in that thar war sack, so I wouldn't be broke none ef you ducked with her; but I reckon Stonewall's strong enough to pack his'n without th'

help of no sawed-off like you-all.'

"Then Mr. Kid he up an' chases me over to a railroad car that's built on tracks runnin' straight up in th' air plumb to th' top of th' house, an'

into her we gits--all free, you _sabe_; didn't have to buy no ticket.

"Wall, sir, when th' feller ridin' her socked in th' spurs, that thar car humped herself once or twice an' then hit a gait that would make a U. P. _ex_press look like she was standin' still, an' in less time than Nebo takes to draw a gun, thar we was at th' top floor, about a mile higher, I reckon, than folks was ever meant to live.

"An' say! By cripes! when I come to look out o' th' winder in my room, I thought I'd have to stake myself to th' bed to be safe. Lookin' out was jest like lookin' down from th' top o' Laramie Peak on th' spread of th'

main range--little ol' peaks an' deep canons everywhere, with signal-fires throwin' up smoke columns from every peak, like Injuns signalin' news. She sh.o.r.e looked a rough country to try to make any short cuts across.

"When I'd got washed up some, I sticks my gun in my waist-band an' goes out an' down to th' ground on that little ol' upstandin' railroad, an'

axes one o' them soldier boys th' trail to the grub-pile. He grins some an' takes me into a room so pow'ful big and crowded with folks I allowed 'bout everybody in town must be eatin' there.

"Soon as I got sot down, here comes a c.o.o.n an' hands me a printed sheet bigger'n th' _Llano Weekly Clarion_. An' when I told him I was much obliged, but I'd come to eat an' not to read, blamed ef that thar c.o.o.n didn't think o' somethin' so funny he nigh split hisself. 'Pears like mos' everybody has a most onusual lot of laugh in 'em back thar.

"Wall, bein' dod-burned hungry, an' allowin' I'd have a bang-up feed, an' rememberin' you Yankees talkin' on th' round-up 'bout what slick eatin' lobsters makes, I tells th' c.o.o.n to bring me a dozen lobsters an'

a cup of coffee.

"'Wha-what's dat you say, boss? How many lobsters does you want?' says th' c.o.o.n.

"'A plumb dozen, you black hash-slinger!' says I, 'an' hump yourself _p.r.o.nto_, for my tape-worm's hollerin' for fodder.'

"Off slides Mr. c.o.o.n, lookin' at me sorta scared-like outen th' corner o' his off eye, to the far end o' th' room.

"Wall, thar I set for about twenty minutes, hopin' lobsters was bigger'n oysters an' wonderin' ef I'd ordered enough to fill up me an' th' worm, when, lookin' up, here comes up th' room a p'rcession of twelve n.i.g.g.e.rs, each n.i.g.g.e.r carryin' a plate about half th' size of a saddle-blanket, an' on each plate a whale of a big red critter, most all laigs an'

claws, that looked like a overgrowed Gila monster with war-paint on.