Hill always said he counted on coming into Palomitas some day on one of his mules bareback––leaving the other five dead or stampeded, and the coach stalled somewhere––and bringing his hair only because road-agents hadn’t no use for hair and his wasn’t easy to get anyhow, he being so bald on top there wasn’t nothing to ketch a-hold of if anybody wanted to lift what little there was along the sides. Of course that was just Hill’s comical way of putting it; but back of his fool talk there was hard sense––as there was apt to be back of Hill’s talk every time. He knew blame well what he was up against, Hill did; and if he hadn’t been more’n extra sandy he never could a-held down his job.

Till Hill started his coach up, the only way to get across to Santa FÉ from Palomitas was to go a-horseback or walk. Both ways was unhealthy; and the coach, being pretty near as liable to hold-ups, wasn’t much healthier. It had to go slow, the coach had––that was a powerful mean road after you left Pojuaque and got in among the sandhills––and you never was sure when some of them bunches of scrub-cedar wasn’t going to wake up and take to pumping lead into you. Only a nervy man, like Hill was, ever could have took the contract; and Hill said he got so rattled sometimes––when it happened he hadn’t no passengers and was going it alone in among them sandhills––he guessed it was only because he had so little hair to turn anything it didn’t turn gray.

Hill slept at the Forest Queen, the nights he was in Palomitas––he drove one way one day and the other way the next––and the boys made things cheerfuller for him by all the time rigging him about the poor show he had for sticking long at his job. He’d look well, they said, a-laying out there in 46 the sage-brush plugged full of lead waiting for his friends to call for him; and they asked him how he thought he’d enjoy being a free-lunch counter for coyotes; and they told him he’d better write down on a piece of paper anything he’d like particular to have painted on the board––and they just generally devilled him all round. Hill didn’t mind the fool talk they give him––he always was a good-natured fellow, Hill was––and he mostly managed to hit back at ’em, one way or another, so they’d come out about even and end up with drinks for all hands.

The only one who really didn’t like that sort of talk, and always kicked when the boys started in on it, was the Sage-Brush Hen. She said it was a mean shame to make a joke about a thing like that, seeing there wasn’t a day when it mightn’t happen; and it wasn’t like an ordinary shooting-match, she said, that come along in the regular way and both of you took your chances; and sometimes she’d get that mad and worried she’d go right smack out of the room.

You see, the Hen always thought a heap of Hill––they having got to be such friends together that first day when he brought her over to Palomitas on the coach and helped her put up her rig on the old gent from Washington; and, back of her liking Hill specially, she really was about as good-natured a woman as ever lived. Except Hart’s nephew––she did just hate Hart’s nephew, who was a chump if ever there was one––she always was as pleasant as pie with everybody; and if any of the boys was hurt––like when Denver Jones got that jag in his shoulder rumpussing with Santa FÉ Charley; and she more friends with Charley, of course, than with anybody else––she’d turn right in and help all she knowed how.

But it’s a cold fact, for all her being so good-natured and obliging, that wherever that Hen was there was a circus. It was on her account Charley and Denver had their little difficulty; and, one way and another, there was more shooting-scrapes about her than about all the other girls put together in all the dance-halls in town. Why, it got 48 to be so that one corner of the new cemetery out on the mesa was called her private lot. It wasn’t her fault, she always said; and, in one way, it wasn’t––she always being willing to be sociable and friendly all round. But, all the same, wherever that Sage-Brush Hen was, there was dead sure to be an all-right cyclone.

One night when the boys at the Forest Queen was rigging Hill worse’n usual, and the Hen all the time getting madder and madder, Santa FÉ Charley come into the game himself. Knowing how down the Hen was on such doings he usually didn’t. I guess he and she’d been having some sort of a ruction that day, and he wanted to get even with her. Anyhow, in he come––and the way he played his hand just got the Hen right up on her ear.

What Charley did was to start a thirty-day pool on Hill as to when it would happen. Chances was a dollar apiece––the dates for thirty days ahead being written on bits of paper, and the bits crumpled up and put 49 into a hat, and you took one––and the pool went to whoever got the right date, with consolation stakes to whoever got the day before and the day after. Charley made a comical speech, after the drawing, telling the boys it was what you might call a quick return investment, and he guessed all of ’em had got left who’d drawed dates more’n a week away. Hill took it all right, same as usual; and just to show ’em he didn’t bear no malice he bought a chance himself. He was one of the best-natured fellows ever got born, Hill was. There wasn’t no Apache in him nowhere. He was white all the way through. So he bought his chance, that way, and then he give it to the Hen––telling her if he pulled the pot himself it wouldn’t be much good to him, and saying he hoped she’d get it if anybody did, and asking her––if she did get it––to have some extry nice touches put on the board.

Well, will you believe it? When Hill give that Hen his chance she begun to cry over it! She knew it wouldn’t do to cry hard––seeing 50 what a mess it would make with her color when the tears got running––and so she pulled herself up quick and mopped her eyes dry with her pocket-handkerchief. And then she let out with all four legs at once, like a Colorado mule, and everlastingly gave it to all hands! It was just like the Hen, being so good-hearted, and thinking so much of Hill, to fire up like that about Santa FÉ’s pool on when he’d get his medicine; and all the boys knowed that beside the address she was making to the whole congregation Santa FÉ was going to get another, and a worse one, when she had him off where she could play out to him a lone hand. But the boys didn’t mind the jawing she give ’em––except they was a little ashamed, knowing putting such a rig on Hill was a mean thing to do––and I guess the whole business would have ended right there (only for the dressing-down Santa FÉ was to get later) if Hart’s nephew hadn’t taken it into his head to chip in––being drunker’n usual, and a fool anyway––and so started what turned out to be a fresh game.

I do suppose Hart’s nephew was about 51 the meanest ever got born. Bill Hart was a good enough fellow himself, and how he ever come to have such a God-forsaken chump for a nephew was more’n anybody could tell. Things must have been powerful bad, I reckon, on his mother’s side. He was one of the blowing kind, with nothing behind his blow; and his feet was that tender they wasn’t fit to walk on anything harder’n fresh mush. The boys all the time was putting up rigs on him; and he’d go around talking so big about what he meant to do to get even with ’em you’d think he was going to clean out the whole town. But he took mighty good care to do his tall talking promiscuous: after making the mistake of trying it once on a little man he thought he could manage––a real peaceable little feller that looked like he wouldn’t stand up to a kitten––and getting his nose and his mouth and his eyes all mashed into one. The little man apologized to the rest for doing it that way, saying he’d a-been ashamed of himself all the rest of his life if he’d gone for a thing like that with his gun.

Well, it was this Hart’s nephew––like enough he had some sort of a name that belonged to him, but he wasn’t worth the trouble of finding out what it was––who chipped in when the Hen took to her tirading, and so give things a new turn. Standing up staggery, and talking in his drunk fool way, he told her the road across to Santa FÉ was as safe as a Sunday-school; and he said he’d be glad to be in Hill’s boots and drive that coach himself, seeing what an interest she took in stage-drivers; and he asked her, sort of nasty, how she managed to get along for company when Hill was at the other end of his run. Hart’s nephew was drunker’n usual that night, same as I’ve said, or even he’d a-knowed he’d likely get into trouble talking that way to the Hen.

For about a minute things looked real serious. The Hen straightened right up, and on the back of her neck––where it showed, she not being fixed red there to start with––she got as red as canned tomatoes; and some of the boys moved a little, sort of uneasy; and Santa FÉ reached out 53 over the piles of chips for his gun. He didn’t get it, because the Hen saw what he was doing and stopped him by looking at him quick––and knowing what Charley was when it come to shooting, you’ll know the Hen sent that look at him about as fast as looks can go! The game had stopped right there; and it was so quiet in the room you’d a-thought the snoring of the two drunks asleep on benches in one corner was a thunder-storm coming down the caÑon!

Of course what we all expected the Hen to do was to wipe up the floor with Hart’s nephew by giving him such a talking to––she could use language, the Hen could, when she started in at it––as would make him sorrier’n usual he’d ever been born; and I guess, from the looks of her, that was what at the first jump she meant to do. But she was a quick-thinking one, the Hen was, and she had a way of getting more funny notions into that good-looking head of hers than any other woman that ever walked around on this earth alive––and so she give us all a real jolt by playing out cards we wasn’t expecting at all. 54 Just as sudden as a wink, she sort of twitched and twinkled––same as she always did when she was up to some new bit of deviltry––and when she set her stamps to going she talked like as if she was real pleased. She didn’t look, though, as good-natured as she talked––keeping on being straightened up, and having a kind of setness in her jaws and a snappiness in them big black eyes of hers that made everybody but Hart’s nephew, who was too drunk to know anything, dead sure she still was mad all the way through.

“If he’ll lend ’em to you, and I guess he will, why don’t you get into Mr. Hill’s boots?” she said to Hart’s nephew. And then she fetched up a nice sort of smile, and said to him real friendly-sounding: “I do like stage-drivers, and that’s a fact––and there’s no telling how pleasant I’ll make things for you if you’ll take the coach across to Santa FÉ to-morrow over that Sunday-school road! Will you do it?” And then the Hen give him one of them fetching looks of hers, and asked him over: “Will you do it––to oblige me?”

Now that was more words at one time than the Hen had dropped on Hart’s nephew since he struck the camp; and as the few he’d ever got from her mostly hadn’t been nice ones, and these sounding to him––he being drunk––like as if they was real good-natured, he was that pleased he didn’t know what to do. Of course he was dead set on the Hen, same as everybody else was––she truly was a powerful fine woman––and it just was funny to see how he tried to steady himself on his legs gentlemanly, and was all over fool smiles.

So he said back to the Hen––speaking slow, to keep his words from tumbling all over each other––he’d just drive that coach across to Santa FÉ a-hooping if Hill’d lend it to him; and then he asked Hill if he might have it––and told him he could trust him to handle it in good shape, because everybody knowed he was a real daisy at driving mules.

For a fact, Hart’s nephew did manage well at mule-driving. It was one of the blame few things that fool knowed how to do. Denver Jones allowed it was because he was related to ’em––on the father’s side.

“Just for this once, Mr. Hill,” said the Hen, speaking coaxy. And she got her head round a little––so Hart’s nephew couldn’t see what she was doing––and give Hill a wink to come into the game.

Hill didn’t know what in the world the Hen was up to––nobody ever did know what that Hen was up to when once she got started––but he reckoned he could take it back in the morning if he didn’t think what she wanted would answer, so in he come: telling Hart’s nephew he might have the coach to do anything (Hill was a kind of a careless talker) he damn pleased with; and saying he’d have it hitched up and ready down at the deepo next morning, same as usual, so he could start right off when the Denver train come in.

When things was settled, all quick that way, Hart’s nephew took to squirming––he seeing, drunk as he was, he’d bit off a blame sight more’n he cared to chew. But with the Hen right after him––and Hill and all the rest of the boys backing her, they being sure she’d dandy cards up her sleeve for the queer 57 game she was playing––he couldn’t make nothing by all his squirms. The boys got at him and told him anybody could see he was afraid; and the Hen got at him and told him anybody could see he wasn’t, and she said she knew he was about the bravest man alive; and Hill got at him and told him the road had improved so, lately, the nearest to road-agents you ever seen on it was burros and cotton-tail rabbits; and all of ’em together kept getting more drinks in him right along. So the upshot of it was: first Hart’s nephew stopped his squirming; and then he took to telling what a holy wonder he was at mule-driving; and then he went to blowing the biggest kind––till he got so he couldn’t talk no longer––about what he’d do in the shooting line if any road-agents come around trying their monkey-shine hold-ups on him! So it ended, good enough, by their getting him fixed tight in his hole.

The boys kept things going with him pretty late that night, and when he showed up in the morning at the deepo––a delegation seeing to it he got there, and Hill having the 58 coach all ready for him––he still had on him a fairly sizable jag. But he’d sobered up enough––having slept quite a little, and soaked his head at the railroad tank––to want to try all he knew how to spill himself out of his job. It took all the Hen could do––the Hen had got up early and come down to the deepo a-purpose to attend to him––and all the boys could do helping her, to get him up on that coach-box and boosted off out of town.

He was that nervous he was shaking all over; and what made him nervouser was having no passengers––nobody for Santa FÉ having come in on the Denver train. It was just a caution to see his shooting outfit! The box of the coach looked like it was a gun-shop––being piled up with two Winchesters and a double-barrelled shot-gun (the shot-gun, he said, was to cripple anybody he didn’t think it was needful to kill); and beside that he had a machete some Mexican lent him hooked on to his belt, and along with it a brace of derringers and two forty-fives. Hill was the only one who didn’t 59 laugh fit to kill himself over that layout. Hill said Hart’s nephew done just right to take along all the guns he could get a-hold of; and Hill said he’d attended to the proper loading of every one of them weepons himself.

At last––with all the boys laughing away and firing fool talk at him, and the Hen keeping him up to the collar by going on about how brave he was––he did manage to whip up his mules and start off. Sick was no name for him––and he was so scared stiff he looked like he was about ready to cry. After he’d got down the slope, and across the bridge over the Rio Grande, and was walking his mules on that first little stretch of sandy road on the way to La CaÑada, we could see him reaching down and fussing over his layout of guns.

For a cold fact, there was a right smart chance that Hart’s nephew––and ’specially because his fool luck made most things come to him contrary––really might run himself into a hold-up; and, if he did, it was like as not his chips might get called in. For all 60 Hill’s funny talk about meeting nothing worse’n burros and cotton-tail rabbits, that road was a bad road––and things was liable to occur. Hill himself was taking his chances, and he blame well knowed it, every day. But it was the sense of the meeting that if a hold-up of that coach attended by fatalities was coming, it couldn’t come at a better time than when Hart’s nephew was on the box––the feeling being general that Hart’s nephew was one that could be spared. I guess Bill Hart felt just the same about it as the rest of us––leastways, he didn’t strain himself any trying to keep his nephew home.

Things went kind of nervous that day at Palomitas. All the boys seemed to have a feeling, somehow, there was going to be happenings; and we all just sort of idled round waiting for ’em––taking more drinks ’n usual, and in spite of the drinks getting every minute lower and lower in our minds. Except the day Hart’s aunt spent with him, and Santa FÉ Charley run the kindergarten, I reckon it was the quietest day we ever went 61 through––at least till we got along to the clean-up that turned Palomitas into what some of us felt was a blame sight too much of a Sunday-school town.

One reason why we all was so serious was because the Sage-Brush Hen––who started most of what happened––didn’t show up as usual; and all hands got a real jolt when some of the boys went off to the Forest Queen to ask about her, and old Tenderfoot Sal told ’em she was laying down in her room and wasn’t feeling well. The Hen being always an out-and-out hustler, and hard as an Indian pony, her not being well shook us up bad. Everybody was friends with her, same as she was friends with everybody––even when she got into one of her tantrums, and took to jawing you, you couldn’t help liking her––and knowing she wasn’t feeling like she ought to feel put a big lot more of a damper on all hands. So we just kept on taking drinks and getting miserabler with ’em––and feeling all the time surer something was coming bouncing out at us from round the corner, and wondering what kind of a stir-up we was likely to have.

It was along about four o’clock in the afternoon the cyclone struck us; and it was such a small-sized one, when we did get it, we didn’t know whether to laugh or swear. But the cyclone himself didn’t think there was anything small about him: being Hart’s nephew––so scared to death all the few wits he ever had was knocked clean out of him––who come into Palomitas, white as white-wash, riding bareback one of the coach mules.

He just sort of rolled off the mule, in front of the Forest Queen, and went in to the bar and got four drinks in him before he could speak a word––and then he said he’d been held up at the Barranca Grande by about two hundred road-agents who’d opened up on him and killed all the mules except the one he’d got away on; and his getting away at all, he said, was only because he’d put up such a fight he’d scared ’em––and after that because they couldn’t hit him when once he was off, and had the mule going on a dead run. Then he took two more drinks, and told his story all over again; and as it was 63 about the same story both times––and he so scared, and by the time he told it over again so set up with his drinks, it didn’t seem likely he’d sense enough left to be lying––the boys allowed like enough it was true.

What he had to tell––except he piled on more road-agents than was needed––was about reasonable. He said he’d done well enough as far as Pojuaque––where he’d had his dinner and changed mules, same as usual, at old man Bouquet’s. And after he’d left Pojuaque he’d got along all right, he said, except he had to go slow through the sandhills, till he come to the Barranca Grande.

It’s a bad place, that barranca is. The road goes sharp down into it, and then sharp up out of it––and both banks so steep you want all the brakes you’ve got to get to the bottom of it, and more mules than you’re likely to have to get to the top on the other side.

Well, Hart’s nephew said he’d just got the coach down to the bottom of the barranca––he’d took the last of the slope at a run, he said, and was licking away at his mules for 64 all he was worth to start ’em up the far side––when the road-agents opened on him, being hid in among the cedar-bushes, from the top of the bank and from both sides of the trail. You never seen such a blaze of shooting in all your life, Hart’s nephew said; and he said before he’d a chance to get a gun up all his mules was hit but one. He said he jumped quick from the box, taking both Winchesters and the shot-gun with him, and having his guns and the derringers in his belt beside, and got behind the one mule that hadn’t been downed and opened up on the bushes where the smoke was and let go as hard as he knowed how. He said he must a-killed more’n twenty of ’em, he guessed, judging by the yelling and groaning, and by the way they slacked up on their fire. Their slacking that way give him a chance, he said, and he took it––cutting the mule loose from the harness with one hand, while he kept on blazing away over her back with the other; then letting ’em have it from both hands for a minute, from what guns he had left that wasn’t empty, to sort of paralyze ’em; and 65 then getting quick on the mule’s back and starting her down the barranca on a dead run.

He had balls buzzing all about him, he said, till he got out of sight around a turn in the barranca; and he said before he made that turn he looked back once and saw a big feller up on top of the bank letting off at him as hard as he could go. Just to show he still had fight in him, he said, he let off back at him with his two derringers––which was all he had left to shoot with––and he was pretty sure, though of course it was only luck did it with the mule bouncing him so, the big feller went down. He was a tremendous tall man, he said; and he guessed he was a Greaser, seeing he had a big black beard and was dressed in Greaser clothes.

He said he didn’t mind owning up he was scared bad while he was in it; but he said he guessed anybody would a-been scared with all them fellers shooting away at him––and, as he’d made as good a fight of it as he knowed how, he didn’t think he was to be blamed for ending by running from such a 66 crowd. He kept on down the barranca for about two miles, he said, till he struck the cross-trail to Tesuque; and he headed north on that till he got to Pojuaque––where he give the mule a rest, she was blowed all to bits, the mule was, he said; and he got some of old man Bouquet’s wine in him, feeling pretty well blowed to bits himself; and then he come along home.

Well, that seemed a straight enough story. The only thing in it you really could pick on––except the number of road-agents, he only having seen one, and the rest being his scared guesswork––was the mule not being hit while he was doing all that firing over the back of her. But all fights has their queer chances in ’em; and that was a chance that might a-happened, same as others. Of course, the one big general thing that didn’t seem likely was that such a runt as Hart’s nephew should have stood up the way he said he did to as much as one road-agent––let alone to the half-dozen or so that like enough had got at him. But even a thing like Hart’s nephew sometimes will put 67 up a fight when it’s scared so bad it really don’t more’n half know what it’s doing––and the boys allowed he might have done his fighting that way.

That the size of his scare had been big enough to make him do a’most anything showed up from the way he kept on being scared after it was all over––he coming into Palomitas looking like a wet white rag when, by his own showing, he’d been out of reach of anybody’s hurting him for four or five hours anyway, and had had a chance to cool off at Pojuaque while he was loading in old man Bouquet’s wine. And so, taking the story by and large, the boys allowed that likely most of it was true; and some of ’em even went so far as to say maybe Hart’s nephew wasn’t more’n half rotten, after all.

It was a good story to hear, anyway; and everybody was sorry the Hen wasn’t around to hear it. But when some of the boys tried to rout her out, Tenderfoot Sal stood ’em off savage––telling ’em to go about their business, and the Hen’s head was aching bad. So the boys had to take it out in 68 making Hart’s nephew keep on telling all he had to tell over and over; and he was glad of the chance to, and did––till he got so many drinks in him he couldn’t tell anything; and then his uncle, with Shorty Smith helping, took him off home.

Next morning, having pretty much slept himself sober, Hart’s nephew went cavorting around Palomitas––that little runt did––like he was about ten foot tall! He had the whole thing over, in the course of the day, a dozen times or more; and as he kept on telling it––now he was sober enough to add things on––it got to be about the biggest fight with road-agents that ever was. The thing that was biggest was the one man he allowed he’d really seen. Why, Goliath of Gath wasn’t in it with that fellow, according to Hart’s nephew! And he was that desperate and dangerous to look at, he said, not many men would a-had the nerve to try at him with only a derringer––and, what was more, to bring him down. It was well along in the afternoon before we got it for a fact that 69 Hart’s nephew really had killed the Greaser. The thing growed that way––from his first telling how he thought he’d hit him––until it ended with the Greaser giving a yell like a stuck pig; and then staggering and throwing his arms up; and then rolling over and over down the side of the barranca to the bottom of it––with his goose cooked all the way through!

We was all down at the deepo waiting for the Denver train to pull out, same as usual, while Hart’s nephew was doing his tallest talking––and while he was hard at it somebody jumped up and sung out the Santa FÉ coach was coming along on the other side of the river from Santa Cruz. Well, that was about the last thing anybody was expecting––and everybody hustled up off the barrels and boxes where they was a-setting and looked with all their eyes.

Sure enough, there the old coach was––just as it always was, about that time of day––coming along as natural as you please. After a while, it keeping on getting nearer, we could see it was old Hill himself up on the 70 box driving his mules in good shape; and when he got along near the bridge we could hear him swearing at ’em––Hill did use terrible bad language to them mules––in just his ordinary way. Then he rattled the mules over the bridge and brought ’em a-clipping up the slope this side of it; and then in another minute he pulled right up at the deepo platform where we all was. Hill was laughing all over as he come up to us, and so was a Mexican who was setting on the box with him––a nice tidy little chap, with a powerful big black beard on him––and Hill sung out: “Have you boys heard about the hold-up?” And then he and the little Mexican got to laughing so it was a wonder they didn’t fall off.

Nobody was thinking nothing about Hart’s nephew––till he let off a yell and sung out: “That’s the man held the coach up! Get a bead on him with your guns!” And he got his own gun out––and like enough would a-done some fool thing with it if Santa FÉ Charley, who was right by him, hadn’t smacked him and jerked it out of his hand.

Santa FÉ smacked so’s to hurt him; and he put his hand up to his face and said, kind of whimpery: “What are you hitting me like that for, Charley? I ain’t done nothing. I tell you that man on the box with Hill is the one I was held up by yesterday. He’s dangerous. If we don’t get a-hold of him quick he’ll be doing something to us with his gun!” And Hart’s nephew a’most broke out crying––being all worked up, and Santa FÉ having smacked him blame hard.

At that, Denver Jones cut in with: “I thought you said the one you was held up by was more’n fourteen foot high, and you killed him? This man ain’t big enough to hold up a baby-carriage with you in it––and he’s sure enough alive. What are you giving us––you blame fool?”

There’s no telling what kind of an answer Denver would a-got from Hart’s nephew––for he hadn’t a chance to give him no answer at all. Just then Hill did the talking, and what Hill said was: “Boys, he’s dead right about it. This here’s the bad man that held the coach up––and as I was there, and 72 seen it done, and drove the coach on with five mules to Santa FÉ afterwards, I guess I know!” And Hill, and the little Mexican with him, just roared.

When Hill could talk for laughing, he went on: “I’ll own up right now, boys, I was extry over-precautious when I fixed up with empty shells that gun-shop Hart’s nephew took along on the coach when he started out with it. For all the harm he done with them guns, I might just as well a-left ’em loaded the usual way. He was that scared when this here gigantic ruffian stopped him––I just happened to be a-setting in among the cedar-bushes at the time, smoking a seegar and looking on sort of casual––he couldn’t do nothing more’n yell out he wasn’t going to shoot, and not to murder him; and then down he jumped from the box––me a-smoking away looking at him, and this here ruffian a-shooting his Winchester across the top of the coach to where he said he thought he seen a jack-rabbit––and cut out the near wheeler; and then he scrambled up anyhow on that mule’s back, and away he went down 73 the barranca as hard as hell!” (Hill oughtn’t to have said that word. But he was careless in his talk, Hill was, and he did).

“But Hart’s nephew being scared that way,” Hill went on, a’most choking, “don’t count one way or the other when you get down to the facts. It was this here dangerous devil that done that wicked deed, and he done it all alone by his dangerous self. At the risk of my life, gentlemen, I’ve got a-hold of him to bring him to justice, and here he is. And I guess the sooner we yank him up to the usual telegraph-pole, and so get shut of him, the sooner it’ll be safe for folks to travel these roads. He’s the most dangerous I ever see,” said Hill, and by that time Hill was so near busted with his laughing he was purple; “and what makes him such a particular holy terror is he goes disguised!” And then––choking so he could hardly speak plain––Hill whipped round to the little Mexican and says to him: “Get your disguise off of you, you murdersome critter! Get it off, I say, and give these gentlemen a look at the terrible wicked face of you––before 74 you and that telegraph-pole gets to being friends!”

And then the little Mexican switched his big black beard off––and right smack there before us was the Sage-Brush Hen! You never heard such a yell as the boys give in all your born days!

And you never in all your born days saw such goings on as there was that night at the Forest Queen! Everybody in Palomitas was right there. The other banks and bars hadn’t a soul left in ’em but the dealers and the drink-slingers––and they, not having nothing to do at home, just shut up shop and come along too. All the girls from all the dance-halls showed up, the Hen being real down popular with ’em––which told well for her––and they wanting to see the fun. Cherry happened to be down from his ranch that night; and Becker got wind of what was up and footed it across from Santa Cruz de la CaÑada; and word was sent to the Elbogen brothers––they was real clever young fellows, them two Germans––and over they come 75 a-kiting on their buck-board from San Juan. I guess it was about the biggest jam the Forest Queen ever had.

Hart’s nephew was the only one around the place who hung back a little, but he got there all right––being fished out of an empty flour-barrel, where he’d hid under the counter in his uncle’s store, and brought along by the invitation committee sent to look for him all dabbed over with flour.

Some thought the way they used Hart’s nephew that night was just a little mite too hard lines––he not being let to have as much as a single drink in him, and so kept plumb sober while the Hen give him his medicine; but all hands allowed––after his sassy talk to her––he didn’t get no more’n she’d a right to give. She just went at him like a blister, the Hen did; and she blistered him worse because she did it in her own funny way––telling him she did just dote on stage-drivers, and if he really wanted to please her he’d take Hill’s job regular; and leading the boys up to him and introducing him, lady-like, as “the hold-up hero”; and asking him to please to tell her 76 all about that fourteen-foot road-agent he’d killed; and just rubbing the whole thing in on him every way she knowed how. Before the Hen got done with him he was about the sickest man, Hart’s nephew was, you ever seen! But I guess it learned him quite a little about how when he talked to ladies he’d better be polite.

Fun wasn’t no name that night for that Hen! She kept on wearing her Mexican clothes, and she did look real down cute in ’em; and she’d got a God-forsaken old rusty pepper-box six-shooter from somewheres, and went flourishing it about saying it was what she’d held up the coach with; and in between times, when she wasn’t deviling Hart’s nephew, she’d go round the room drawing beads on the boys with her pepper-box, and making out she was dangerous by putting her big black beard on, and standing up in attitudes so the boys might see, she said, how road-agenty she looked and bad and bold! Why, the Hen did act so comical that night all hands pretty near died with their laugh!