When Morton hears of them remarks he re-gyards himse’f as wronged.

“An’ if Old Houston,” observes Morton, who’s a knife fighter an’ has sliced offensive gents from time to time; “an’ if Old Houston ain’t more gyarded in his remarks, I’ll take to disapprovin’ of his conduct with a bowie.”

As I intimates, Old Houston is that pride-blown that you-all couldn’t stay on the same range where he is. An’ he’s worried to a standstill for a openin’ to onload on the Texas public a speciment of his dignity. At last, seein’ the chances comin’ some slow, he ups an’ constructs the opportunity himse’f.

Old Houston’s home-camp, that a-way, is at a hamlet named Washin’ton down on the Brazos. It’s thar he squanders the heft of his leesure when not back of the game as President over to Austin. Thar’s a clause in the constitootion which, while pitchin’ onto Austin as the public’s home-ranche or capitol, permits the President in the event of perils onforeseen or invasions or sech, to round up the archives an’ move the capitol camp a whole lot. Old Houston, eager to be great, seizes onto this yere tenet.

“I’ll jest sort o’ order the capitol to come down, yere where I live at,” says Old Houston, “an’ tharby call the waverin’ attention of the Lone Star public to who I be.”

As leadin’ up to this atrocity an’ to come within the constitootion, Old Houston allows that Austin is menaced by Comanches. Shore, it ain’t menaced none; Austin would esteem the cleanin’ out of that entire Comanche tribe as the labors of a holiday. But it fills into Old Houston’s hand to make this bluff as a excuse. An’ with that, he issues the order to bring the whole gov’ment layout down to where he lives.

No, as I tells you-all before, Austin ain’t in no more danger of Comanches than she is of j’inin’ the church. Troo, these yere rannikaboo savages does show up in paint an’ feathers over across the Colorado once or twice; but beyond a whoop or two an’ a little permiscus shootin’ into town which nobody minds, them vis’tations don’t count.

To give you-all gents a idee how little is deemed of Comanches by them Texas forefathers, let me say a word of Bill Spence who keeps a store in Austin. Bill’s addin’ up Virg Horne’s accounts one afternoon in his books.

“One pa’r of yaller-top, copper-toe boots for Virg, joonior, three dollars; one red cal’co dress for Missis Virg, two dollars,” goes on Bill.

At this epock Bill hears a yowl; glancin’ out of the winder, he counts a couple of hundred Injuns who’s proselytin’ about over on t’other side of the river. Bill don’t get up none; he jests looks annoyed on account of that yellin’ puttin’ him out in his book-keepin’.

As a bullet from them savages comes singin’ in the r’ar door an’ buries itse’f in a ham, Bill even gets incensed.

“Hiram,” he calls to his twelve-year old son, who’s down cellar drawin’ red-eye for a customer; “Hiram, you-all take pop’s rifle, raise the hindsight for three hundred yards, an’ reprove them hostiles. Aim low, Hiram, an’ if you fetches one, pop’ll give you a seegyar an’ let you smoke it yourse’f.”

Bill goes back to Virg Horne’s account, an’ Hiram after slammin’ away with Bill’s old Hawkins once or twice comes in an’ gets his seegyar.

No; Old Houston does wrong when he flings forth this yere ukase about movin’ the capitol. Austin, even if a gent does have to dodge a arrer or duck a bullet as he prosecootes his daily tasks, is as safe as a camp-meetin’.

When Old Houston makes the order, one of his Brazos pards reemonstrates with him.

“Which Austin will simply go into the air all spraddled out,” says this pard.

“If Austin sails up in the air an’ stays thar,” says Old Houston, “still you-all can gamble that this yere order goes.”

“You hears,” says another, “Elder Peters when he tells of how a Mexican named Mohammed commands the mountain to come to him? But the mountain calls his bluff; that promontory stands pat, an’ Mohammed has to go to the mountain.”

“My name’s Sam Houston an’ it ain’t Mo-hommed,” retorts Old Houston. “Moreover, Mohammed don’t have no written constitootion.”

Nacherally, when Austin gets notice of Old Houston’s plan, that meetropolis r’ars back an’ screams. The faro-bank folks an’ the tavern folks is speshul malignant, an’ it ain’t no time before they-all convenes a meetin’ to express their views on Old Houston. Morton an’ Jedge Webb does the oratory. An’ you hear me! that assembly is shore sultry. Which the epithets they applies to Old Houston kills the grass for twenty rods about.

Austin won’t move.

Austin resolves to go to war first; a small army is organized with Morton in command to gyard the State House an’ the State books that a-way, an’ keep Old Houston from romancin’ over an’ packin’ ’em off a heap.

Morton is talkin’ an’ Webb is presidin’ over this yere convocation—which the said meetin’ is that large an’ enthoosiastic it plumb chokes up the hall an’ overflows into the street—when all of a sudden a party comes swingin’ through the open winder from the top of a scrub-oak that grows alongside the buildin’, an’ drops light as a cat onto the platform with Morton an’ Webb. At this yere interruption, affairs comes to a halt, an’ the local sports turns in to consider an’ count up the invader.

This gent who swoops through the winder is dark, big, bony an’ tall; his ha’r is lank an’ long as the mane of a hoss; his eyes is deep an’ black; his face, tanned like a Injun’s, seems hard as iron. He’s dressed in leather from foretop to fetlock, is shod with a pa’r of Comanche moccasins, an’ besides a ’leven inch knife in his belt, packs a rifle with a 48-inch bar’l. It will weigh twenty pounds, an’ yet this stranger handles it like it’s a willow switch.

As this darksome gent lands in among Morton an’ Webb, he stands thar without sayin’ a word. Webb, on his part, is amazed, while Morton glowers.

“Whatever do you-all regyard as a market price for your skelp?’” says Morton to the black interloper, at the same time loosenin’ his knife.

The black stranger makes no reply; his hand flashes to his bowie, while his face still wears its iron look.

Webb, some hurried, pushes in between Morton an’ the black stranger. Webb is more for peace an’ don’t believe in beginnin’ negotiations with a knife.

Webb dictates a passel of p’lite queries to this yere black stranger. Tharupon, the black stranger bows p’lite an’ formal, an’ goin’ over to the table writes down in good English, “I’m deef an’ dumb.” Next, he searches outen his war-bags a letter. It’s from Old Houston over on the Brazos. Old Houston allows that onless Austin comes trailin’ in with them records within three days, he’ll ride over a whole lot an’ make the round-up himse’f. Old Houston declar’s that Austin by virchoo of them Comanches is as on-safe as a Christian in Mississippi, an’ he don’t aim to face no sech dangers while performin’ his dooties as President of the Commonwealth.

After the black stranger flings the letter on the table, he’s organizin’ to go out through the winder ag’in. But Morton sort o’ detains him. Morton writes on the paper that now the black stranger is through his dooties as a postman, he will, if he’s a dead game sport, stay over a day, an’ him an’ Morton will entertain themse’fs by pullin’ off a war of their own. The idee strikes the black stranger as plenty good, an’ while his face still wears its ca’m, hard look, he writes onder Morton’s bluff:

“Rifles; no’th bank of the Colorado; sun-down, this evenin’.”

The next moment he leaps from the platform to the winder an’ from thar to the ground, an’ is gone.

“But Colonel Morton,” reemonstrates Webb, who’s some scand’lized at Morton hookin’ up for blood with this yere black stranger; “you-all shorely don’t aim to fight this party? He’s deef an’ dumb, which is next to bein’ locoed outright. Moreover, a gent of your standin’ can’t afford to go ramblin’ about, lockin’ horns with every on-known miscreant who comes buttin’ in with a missif from President Houston, an’ then goes stampedin’ through a winder by way of exit.”

“Onknown!” retorts Morton. “That letterpackin’ person is as well known as the Rio Grande. That’s Deef Smith.”

“Colonel Morton,” observes Webb, some horrified when he learns the name of the black stranger, “this yere Deef Smith is a shore shot. They say he can empty a Comanche saddle four times in five at three hundred yards.”

“That may be as it may,” returns Morton. “If I downs him, so much the more credit; if he gets me, at the worst I dies by a famous hand.”

The sun is restin’ on the sky-line over to the west. Austin has done crossed the Colorado an’ lined up to witness this yere dooel. Deef Smith comes ridin’ in from some’ers to the no’th, slides outen the saddle, pats his hoss on the neck, an’ leaves him organized an’ ready fifty yards to one side. Then Deef Smith steps to the center an’ touches his hat, mil’tary fashion, to Morton an’ Webb.

These yere cavaliers is to shoot it out at one hundred yards. As they takes their places, Morton says:

“Jedge Webb, if this Deef Smith party gets me, as most like he will, send my watch to my mother in Looeyville.”

Then they fronts each other; one in brown leather, the other in cloth as good as gold can buy. No one thinks of any difference between ’em, however, in a day when courage is the test of aristocracy.

Since one gent can’t hear, Webb is to give the word with a handkerchief. At the first flourish the rifles fall to a hor’zontal as still an’ steady as a rock. Thar’s a brief pause; then Webb drops his handkerchief.

Thar is a crack like one gun; Deef Smith’s hat half turns on his head as the bullet cuts it, while Morton stands a moment an’ then, without a sound, falls dead on his face. The lead from Deef Smith’s big rifle drills him through the heart. Also, since it perforates that gold repeater, an’ as the blood sort o’ clogs the works, the Austin folks decides it’s no use to send it on to Looeyville, but retains it that a-way as a keepsake.

With the bark of the guns an’ while the white smoke’s still hangin’ to mark the spot where he stands, Deef Smith’s hoss runs to him like a dog. The next instant Deef Smith is in the saddle an’ away. It’s jest as well. Morton’s plenty pop’lar with the Austin folks an’ mebby some sharp, in the first hysteria of a great loss, overlooks what’s doo to honor an’ ups an’ plugs this yere Deef Smith.

The Old Cattleman made a long halt as indicative that his story was at an end. There was a moment of silence, and then the Jolly Doctor spoke up.

“But how about the books and papers?” asked the Jolly Doctor.

“Oh, nothin’ partic’lar,” said the Old Cattleman. “It turns out like Old Houston prophesies. Three days later, vain an’ soopercilious, he rides in, corrals them archives, an’ totes ’em haughtily off to the Brazos.”

Following the Old Cattleman’s leaf from Lone Star annals, the Sour Gentleman prepared himself to give us his farewell page from the unwritten records of the Customs.

“On this, our last evening,” observed the Sour Gentleman, “it seems the excellent thing to tell you what was practically my final act of service or, if you will, disservice with the Customs. We may call the story ‘How the Filibusterer Sailed.’”