The Sunset Trail Read online

  CHAPTER X

  THE INTUITIONS OF MR. ALLISON

  For a moment the signs promised hugely of smoke and flying lead andsudden death, and the interest of Dodge was awakened. Later, when theepisode had been thoroughly searched, it grew to be the popularconclusion that the affair was wholly of the surface. Mr. Allisonhimself said that he was saved in a manner occult, and not to beunderstood, and explained how his intuitions warned him of a pendingperil. Had it not been for those warning impressions, which he insistedcame from guardian spirits interested for his safety, Mr. Allison heldthat the business might have taken on a serious not to say a sanguinaryhue.

  Cimarron Bill declined the theory of guardian spirits as maintained byMr. Allison; he took the blame of that gentleman's escape upon himself.

  "Clay never got no speritual hunch," said Cimarron. "Which it was my ownontimely cur'osity that give him warnin'. I'm in the Long Branch at thetime, an' nacherally, after gettin' Bat's word, I keep protroodin' myhead a whole lot, expectin' every minute's goin' to be Clay's next; an'he ups an' notices it."

  Mr. Short joined with Cimarron, and expressed a skepticism as to Mr.Allison having been bucklered by disembodied influences.

  "I never did go a foot," concluded Mr. Short, "on speritualism, with itstable-tippin' an' its ghost-dancin'. Cimarron's argument sounds a heapmore feasible. In my opinion, Clay saw thar was a hen on by Cimarron'sface."

  "You can gamble a handful of reds," remarked Cimarron Bill, disgustedly,"he sees it in my face. Which it'll be a lesson to me to hide myse'f thenext time one of them Las Animas terrors comes bulgin' into camp, ontilBat's added him to the list. I shore won't sp'ile another sech a layoutby bein' prematoorly inquisitive that a-way."

  "Well," returned Mr. Masterson, with whom Mr. Short and Cimarron Billwere in talk, "whether Clay was saved by spirits, or by just his ownhorse sense, I'm glad it ended as it did."

  The chances favour the assumption that, had Mr. Masterson been up andabout, the trouble would have had no beginning. In that event he wouldhave been more or less in the company of Mr. Allison. Such a spectacle,while it might not instruct the mean intelligence of the Ground Owl,would have at least advised his caution. He would have gained therefromsome glint of Mr. Allison's position in the world, and refrained frominsults which, when the latter reviewed them by the light of liquorafterwards obtained, sent him on the wretched Ground Owl's trail.

  Those differences between Mr. Allison and the Ground Owl began at theWright House breakfast table. They did not culminate, however, untillate in the morning, and when, commonly, Mr. Masterson would have beenabroad about his duty. But the night before had been a trying one forMr. Masterson. He was employed until broad day in keeping Mr. McBridefrom slaying Bobby Gill, and never sought his blankets until an hourafter dawn.

  Mr. McBride had been a brother scout with Mr. Masterson in the Cheyennewars. Later he came to Dodge, as he said, to "quiet down." In carryingout his plan of quieting down, Mr. McBride espoused and took to wife,one Bridget, who for years had been recognised as the official scold ofDodge.

  In an elder day, Bridget would have graced a ducking-stool. Dodge,however, owned no such instrument of correction. Neither, save duringthe June rise, was there a sufficient depth of water in the Arkansas tomake a ducking-stool effective. Mr. McBride following marriage lived interror of Bridget's awful tongue, which served him right, so peoplesaid, for having been a fool.

  At the end of their first wedded year, that is to say upon the third dayprior to the trouble between Mr. Allison and the Ground Owl, Mr.McBride, by some lucky thick-skull utterance as to what should be agovernment policy touching Cheyennes, incurred the contempt of Bridget.The word "lucky" is employed because the contempt induced was beyondpower of words to express, and Bridget became so surcharged of viewsderogatory to Mr. McBride that she burst a blood-vessel and died. Mr.McBride's release left him in a pleasant daze. Being, however, a slaveto the conventional, he did not laugh, but lapsed into lamentations,wound his sombrero with black and, with woe-lengthened visage, madeready for the last rites.

  On the day of the funeral, it being the immemorial custom of Dodge toattend such ceremonies in a body, the house of Mr. McBride was full. Mr.McBride felt the tribute, and his heart swelled with excusable pride. Heglanced out through his tears, and counted as present the best faces ofthe town.

  The occasion would have been forever cherished among the proudestmemories of Mr. McBride, had it not been for the untoward conduct ofBobby Gill. This latter ignobility was the pet barbarian of Dodge, justas Bridget had been its pet virago. Also, there had existed feud betweenBridget and Bobby; they had felt for one another the jealous hate ofrivals. Bridget at the mere sight of Bobby Gill was wont to uncork thevitriol of her anger. She would sear him verbally, while he replied inkind, Dodge standing by to listen and admire.

  Still, Bridget was never permitted a victory over Bobby. While she couldsay more than he could, his observations had a cutting force beyond hergenius. As Mr. Kelly--who was deep in the lore of guns--observed:

  "Bridget's like a Winchester, while old Bobby's like a Sharp's. She canshoot faster than he can; but thar's more powder behind what Bobby says.Also, he's got more muzzle velocity. An' he carries further."

  "I entertains opinions similar," said Cimarron Bill, who as Aunt NettieDawson's nephew was no mean judge of a tirade.

  As Mr. McBride was feeding that pardonable vanity chronicled andflattering himself with a review of the mourning throng, Bobby Gillappeared at the door. Bobby toed in like an Indian or a pigeon, andbecause he walked on the ball of his foot as does the wolf, he possesseda lurking, spying manner.

  Bobby came in, his wool hat held between his fingers, in a tight roll.Being in he began peeping and peering, right and left, and craning overintervening shoulders as though to get a glimpse of the casket. Mr.McBride crossed over to Bobby with a step serious and slow:

  "Bobby," said Mr. McBride, manner gloomly firm, "you an' Bridget neveragreed, an' you'll obleege me by hittin' the street."

  Bobby backed softly out. At the door, as though to vindicate therespectful innocence of his motives, he paused.

  "Say, Mack," he whispered, in mingled apology and reproach, "I only jestwanted to see was she shore dead."

  It wasn't until late in the evening, when the sad responsibilities ofthe day had been lifted from his mind, that Mr. McBride became a burdenupon the hands of Mr. Masterson. Mr. McBride said that he'd beeninsulted; the memory of Bridget he averred had met with disrespect.Thereupon he buckled on his six-shooter--which had been laid aside infuneral deference to the day--and announced an intention to hunt downBobby Gill.

  "Come, Mack!" argued Mr. Masterson, soothingly, "it isn't creditable toyou--isn't creditable to Bridget."

  "But, Bat," sobbed Mr. McBride, as he half-cocked his Colt's-45, andsadly revolved the cylinder to make sure that all worked smoothly, "I'veput up with a heap from Bobby--me and Bridget has--an' now I'm goin' tonacherally discontinue him a lot."

  "You oughtn't to mind old Bobby," Mr. Masterson insisted. "Everybodyknows he's locoed."

  "If he's locoed," Mr. McBride retorted through his grief, "I'm locoed,too. Sorrow over Bridget an' the onmerited contoomely of that oldprofligate has shore left me as crazy as a woman's watch. Bat, don'tstop me! Which I've sot my heart on his h'ar."

  Mr. Masterson was granite. There was no shaking him off. He persuaded,commanded, explained, and gave his word that Bobby Gill should makehumble amends. At last, Mr. McBride, realising the inevitable,surrendered, and promised to be at peace.

  "For all that, Bat," concluded Mr. McBride, with a gulp, "old Bobby'squeered them obsequies for me. I can never look back on 'em now withoutregret."

  It was the bluish dawn before Mr. Masterson felt justified in leavingthe widowed Mr. McBride. He was so worn with his labours that he made nomore profound arrangements for slumber than casting aside his coat andkicking off his boots. A moment later he was as sound asleep as a tree.

  Mr. Masterson had b
een asleep four hours, when Jack broke in upon himwith the rude word that Mr. Allison had "turned in to tree the town."

  "You can nail him from the window," puffed Jack, who was out of breathwith hurry. "You haven't time to pull on your boots and go down. Yourbest hold is to get the drop on him from the window, an' when he makes abreak, cut loose."

  Mr. Masterson sprang from the blankets and caught up his Sharp's for thehonour of Dodge. To permit Mr. Allison to give the town an uncheckedshaking up would mean immortal disgrace. For all the hurry, however, Mr.Masterson had time to admire the military sagacity of Jack.

  "Some day you'll make a marshal, Jack," quoth Mr. Masterson, and the"cluck-cluck!" of the buffalo gun as he cocked it served to punctuatethe remark.

  Some cynic, with a purpose to injure that commonwealth only equalled byhis sour carelessness of truth, once said that Indiana was settled byfolk who had started for the West, but lost their nerve. This isapparent slander, and not to be believed of a people who later endowedus with Ade, Tarkington, David Graham Phillips and Ben Hur. The onedisgrace traceable to Indiana is that in some unguarded moment she gavebirth to the Ground Owl, and sent him forth to vex the finer sentimentsof Dodge. Also the Ground Owl, with his insolences, imbecilities, andfeeble timidities, was the harder to bear since he never once offeredthe outraged public, in whose side he was the thorn, an opening to berid of him by customary lead and powder means.

  The Ground Owl had come to Dodge in fear and trembling. He did not wantto come, but for reasons never fathomed he couldn't remain in Indiana.It was a wholesale firm in Chicago that asked Mr. Wright to employ himas salesman in his store; and Mr. Wright, acting after those recklessbusiness methods that obtain in the West and are a never flaggingwellspring of trouble, consented without waiting to see the Ground Owlor estimate his length and breadth and depth as a communal disaster. Forthis blinded procedure Mr. Wright was often sorely blamed.

  And yet to Mr. Masterson, rather than to Mr. Wright, should be chargedthe prolonged infliction of the Ground Owl's presence. Once installedbehind the counters of Mr. Wright, the Ground Owl lost no time inseeking Mr. Masterson. Every Dodgeian wore a gun, and this display offorce excited the Ground Owl vastly. The latent uncertainties of hissurroundings alarmed him. Dodge was a volcano; an eruption might occurat any time! The air to-day was wholesome; to-morrow it might be as fullof lead as the Ozarks! In this fashion vibrated the hair-hung fears ofthe Ground Owl, and with a cheek of chalk he sought out Mr. Masterson tocanvass ways and means to best conserve his safety. Mr. Masterson, whocould hardly grasp the notion of personal cowardice on the part of anyman, was shocked. However, he made no comment, evinced not the leastsurprise, but asked:

  "You're afraid some of the boys'll shoot you up?"

  "In some moment of excitement, you know!" returned the Ground Owl,quaveringly.

  "And you want to know what to do to be saved?"

  "Yes," said the Ground Owl, attention on the strain.

  "Then never pack a gun."

  Mr. Masterson explained to the Ground Owl that to slay an unarmed man,whatever the provocation, was beyond an etiquette. The West would neversink to such vulgar depths. No one, however locoed of drink, would makea target of the Ground Owl while the latter wasn't heeled.

  "Of course," observed Mr. Masterson, by way of qualification, "you'renot to go hovering about scrimmages in which you've no personal concern.In that case, some of the boys might get confused and rub you outerroneously."

  That golden secret of how to grow old in the West went deep into theaspen soul of the Ground Owl. As its direct fruit he would as soon takearsenic as belt on a pistol. There was a faulty side, however, to theMasterson suggestion. In time, realising an immunity, the Ground Owlgrew confident; and the confidence bred insolence, and a smart weaknessfor insulting persiflage, that were among the most exasperating featuresof a life in Dodge while the Ground Owl lasted.

  It is a revenge that cowards often take. Make them safe, and you are aptto make them unbearable. They will offer outrage when they know therecan be no reprisal. Thus they humour themselves with the impression of apersonal courage on their coward parts, and prevent self-contempt fromoverwhelming them.

  The Ground Owl owned another name--a rightful name. It was Bennington DuPont, and he capitalized the "Pont." The name was thrown away on Dodge,for Cimarron Bill rechristened him the Ground Owl.

  "What may I call you?" Cimarron had demanded. Then, as though explaininga rudeness: "The reason I inquire is that, if you-all continues to growon me, I might want to ask you to take a seegyar."

  "Bennington Du Pont," faltered the Ground Owl. "My name is Bennington DuPont."

  "Which you'll pardon me," returned Cimarron Bill, severely, "ifyereafter I prefers to alloode to you as the Ground Owl."

  "The Ground Owl!" exclaimed the renamed one, his horror giving him adesperate courage. "Why the Ground Owl?"

  "Why the Ground Owl?" repeated Cimarron. Then solemnly: "Because therattlesnakes don't kill 'em, an' no one knows wherefore."

  Thus it befell that within twenty-four hours after his advent every earin Dodge had heard of the Ground Owl, and not one of Bennington Du Pont.

  The Ground Owl's address was the Wright House. It was at this hostelryhe received his earliest glimpse of Mr. Allison, and organised thoseinsult-born differences.

  Mr. Allison's country was Las Animas and the region round about. He hadbeen over in the Panhandle, and was spurring homeward by way of Dodge.Having put his weary pony in the corral, he sought his own refreshmentat the Wright House.

  Mr. Allison was celebrated for force of character, and the democraticfrankness of his six-shooters. His entrance into Las Animas' socialcircles had been managed with effect. That was seven years before, andMr. Hixenbaugh told this of Mr. Allison's debut.

  "Which I was in the Sound Asleep Saloon," explained Mr. Hixenbaugh,"tryin' to fill a club flush, when the music of firearms floats overfrom across the street. I goes to the door on the lope, bein' curious asto who's hit, an thar on t'other side I observes a sport who's sufferin'from one of them deeformities called a clubfoot, and who's got a gun ineach hand. He's jest caught Bill Gatling in the knee, an' is bein'harassed at with six-shooters by Gene Watkins an' Len Woodruff, who'swhangin' away at him from Crosby's door. I lands on the sidewalk in timeto see him hive Gene with a bullet in the calf of his laig. Then Genean' Bill an' Len, the first two bein' redooced to crawl on hands an'knees by virchoo of them bullets, takes refooge in Crosby's, an' surveysthis club-foot party a heap respectful from a winder. As I crosses overto extend congratyoolations, he w'irls on me.

  "'Be you too a hostile?' he asks, domineerin' at me with his guns.

  "'Hostile nothin'!' I replies; 'I'm simply comin' over in a sperit ofadmiration. What's the trouble?'

  "'Stranger,' he says, 'that question is beyond me. I've only been inyour town four minutes, an' yet thar seems to be a kind o' prejewdyceag'inst me in the minds of the ignorant few. But never mind,' heconcloods; 'we're all cap'ble of mistakes. My name's Clay Allison, an'these folks'll know me better by an' by. When they do know me, an' havearrived at a complete onderstandin' of my pecooliarities, they'll walk'round me like I was a swamp.'"

  Following this introduction, it would appear that Mr. Allison was takeninto fellowship by Las Animas. The crippled foot and the consequent limpwere lost sight of when he was in the saddle. When he was afoot theywent verbally unnoticed, since it was his habit to use a Winchester fora crutch.

  After eight weeks in Las Animas, Mr. Allison felt as much at home asthough he had founded the town. Also, he became nervously sensitive overthe public well-being, and, mounted on a milk-white pony, which hecalled his "wah hoss," rode into open court, and urged that conventionof justice, then sitting, to adjourn. Mr. Allison made the point that atoo persistent holding of court militated against a popular repose.Inasmuch as he accompanied his opinions with the crutch-Winchesteraforesaid, their soundness was conceded by the presiding judge. Thejudge, as he ordered an adjournment,
said that in the face of whatpractical arguments were presented by Mr. Allison he was driven toregard the whole theory of courts as at best but academic.

  Later, by two months, Mr. Allison was driven to slay the Las Animasmarshal. In this adventure he again demonstrated the accurate workingsof his mind. The marshal, just before he drifted into the infinite, hademptied the right barrel of a Greener 10-gauge into Mr. Allison'sbrother, John. A shotgun has two barrels, and the jury convoked in thepremises, basing decision on that second barrel and arguing from all thecircumstances that the late officer was gunning for the entire Allisonfamily, gave a verdict of self-defence.

  Mr. Allison was honourably acquitted, and the acquittal much encouragedhis belief in justice. It showed him too the tolerant spirit of LasAnimas, and he displayed his appreciation thereof by engaging in thatrugged Western pastime known as "Standing the Town on Its Head." Indeed,Mr. Allison made the bodily reversal of Las Animas a sacred duty to beperformed twice a year; but since he invariably pitched upon Christmasand the Fourth of July for these pageantries, the public, so far fromfinding invidious fault, was inclined to join with him. In short, somuch were Mr. Allison and Las Animas one in soul and sentiment, that themoment they had conquered the complete acquaintance of each otherthey--to employ a metaphor of the farms--"fell together like a shock ofoats." Mr. Allison was proud of Las Animas, while Las Animas looked uponMr. Allison as the chief jewel in its crown.

  On the breath of admiration some waif-word of the hardy deeds of Mr.Allison would now and again be wafted down the river to Dodge. Enviousones, who hated Dodge and resented its high repute as "a camp that wasnever treed," had been even heard to prophesy that Mr. Allison would oneday devote a leisure hour to subjecting Dodge to those processes ofinversion which Las Animas had enjoyed, and leave its hithertounconquered heels where its head should be. These insolent anticipationswould wring the heart of Cimarron Bill.

  "You can hock your spurs an' pony," he was wont to respond, "that ifClay ever shakes up Dodge, he'll shake it in the smoke."

  Mr. Masterson, when the threats of an Allison invasion were brought tohis notice, would say nothing. He held it unbecoming his officialcharacter to resent a hypothesis, and base declarations of war on anassumption of what might be.

  "It's bad policy," quoth Mr. Masterson, "to ford a river before youreach it. It'll be time to settle what Dodge'll do with Clay, when Claybegins to do things to Dodge. He'll have to open a game, however, thatno one's ever heard of, if Dodge don't get better than an even break."

  "Shore!" coincided Cimarron Bill, confidently. "The idee, because Claycan bluff 'round among them Las Animas tarrapins without gettin' called,that he can go dictatin' terms to Dodge, is eediotic. He'd be too deadto skin in about a minute! That's straight; he wouldn't last as long asa drink of whiskey!"

  The Ground Owl was alone in the breakfast room of the Wright House whenMr. Allison limped in. All men have their delicate side, and it was Mr.Allison's to regard the open wearing of one's iron-mongery as bad form.Wherefore, he was accustomed to hide the Colt's pistols wherewith hiships were decked, beneath the tails of a clerical black coat. Inasmuchas he had left the crutch-Winchester with his sombrero at the hat-rack,even an alarmist like the Ground Owl could discover nothing appalling inhis exterior. The halting gait and the black coat made for a harmlessimpression that went far to unlock the derision of the Ground Owl. Hetreated himself to an evil grin as Mr. Allison limped to a seatopposite; but since Mr. Allison didn't catch the malicious gleam of it,the grin got by unchallenged.

  It was a breakfast custom of the Wright House to provide doughnuts as afashion of a side-dish whereat a boarder might nibble while awaiting thebaking-powder biscuit, "salt hoss," canned tomatoes, tinned potatoes,coffee and condensed milk that made up the lawful breakfast of thecaravansary. Las Animas being devoid of doughnuts, Mr. Allison had nevermet one. Moved by the doughnut example of the Ground Owl, he tasted thatdelicacy. The doughnut as an edible proved kindly to the palate of Mr.Allison, and upon experiment he desired more. The dish had been drawnover to the elbow of the Ground Owl, and was out of his reach.Perceiving this, Mr. Allison pointed with appealing finger. "Pard," saidMr. Allison, politely, "please pass them fried holes."

  "Fried holes!" cried the Ground Owl, going off into derisive laughter."Fried holes! Say! you limp in your talk like you do in your walk! Friedholes!" and the Ground Owl again burst into uninstructed mirth.

  The Ground Owl's glee was frost-bitten in the bud. The frost that nippedit was induced by a Colt's pistol in the hand of Mr. Allison, thechilling muzzle not a foot from his scared face. The Ground Owl's veinsran ice; he choked and fell back in his helpless chair. Not lessformidable than the Colt's pistol was the fury-twisted visage of Mr.Allison.

  Even in his terror the Ground Owl recalled the word of Mr. Masterson.

  "Don't shoot," he squeaked. "I'm unarmed!"

  For one hideous moment Mr. Allison hesitated; it was in his mind toviolate a precedent, and slaughter the gunless Ground Owl where he sat.But his instincts and his education made against it; he jammed hisweapon back into its scabbard with the terse command:

  "Go heel yourse'f, you bull-snake! Dodge'll have you or me to plant!"

  The Ground Owl groped his frightened way to the door. A moment later hewas burrowing deep beneath a stack of alfalfa hay in Mr. Trask's corral,and it would have been necessary to set fire to the hay to find him. Mr.Allison sat glaring, awaiting the Ground Owl's return--which he neverdoubted. He no longer wanted breakfast, he wanted blood.

  Dodge knew nothing of these ferocious doings--the insult, the flight ofthe Ground Owl, and the vicious waiting of Mr. Allison. The first newsof it that reached Dodge was when Mr. Allison--rifle in itssaddle-scabbard, six-shooters at his belt--came whooping and spurring,the sublimation of warlike defiance, into the town's main thoroughfare.He had saddled that bronco within twenty feet of the Ground Owl,shivering beneath the hay. The explosive monologue with which he hadaccompanied the saddling, and wherein he promised a host of bloodyexperiences to the Ground Owl, rendered that recreant as cold as a keyand as limp as a rag.

  After a mad dash up and down the street, enlivened by divers war shouts,Mr. Allison pulled up in front of Mr. Webster's Alamo Saloon. Sitting inthe saddle, he fiercely demanded the Ground Owl at the hands of thepublic, and threatened Dodge with extinction in case he was denied.

  Affairs stood thus when Jack turned Mr. Masterson out of his blankets.The soul of Jack was in arms. It would have broken his boy's heart hadMr. Allison flung forth his challenge in the open causeways of Dodge anddeparted, unaccommodated, unrebuked, to cheer Las Animas with a recountof his prowess.

  "That's business!" exulted Jack, as the double "cluck!" of Mr.Masterson's buffalo gun broke charmingly upon his ear. "Send daylightplumb through him! Don't let him go back to Las Animas with a yarn abouthow Dodge laid down to him!"

  It was the first impression of Mr. Masterson that Mr. Allison's purposewas to merely feed his self-love by a general defiance of Dodge. Hewould ride and shout and shoot and disport himself unlawfully. In thishe would demonstrate the prostrate sort of the Dodgeian nerve.

  Mr. Masterson was clear that this contumely must be checked. It wouldnever do to let word drift into Texas that Dodge had wilted. Were thatto occur, when the boys with the Autumn herds came in, never a mirror intown would survive; the very air would sing and buzz with contemptuousbullets. Mr. Masterson, from his window, came carefully down on Mr.Allison with the buffalo gun; he would reprove that fatuous egotist,whose conceit it was to fancy that he could stand up Dodge.

  Mr. Masterson would have instantly shot Mr. Allison from the saddle, butwas withstood by a detail. Mr. Allison's six-shooters were still in hisbelt; his Winchester was still in its scabbard beneath his leg. Theseinnocuous conditions constrained Mr. Masterson to pause; he must,according to the rule in such case made and provided, wait until aweapon was in the overt hand of Mr. Allison.

  Mr. Masterson could make neither head nor tail of what Mr. Alli
son wassaying. For the most it was curse, and threat, coupled with pictures ofwhat terrific punishments--to cure it of its pride--Mr. Allison wouldpresently inflict upon Dodge. This being all, however, Mr. Mastersoncould do no more than wait--being at pains, meanwhile, to see theoratorical Mr. Allison through both sights of the buffalo gun. When Mr.Allison snatched a pistol from his belt, that would be Mr. Masterson'scue; he would then drill him for the good of Dodge and the instructionof Las Animas.

  Having the business wholly in hand, it was next the thought of Mr.Masterson to obviate interference. He turned to Jack:

  "Skip out, and tell Kell and Short and Cimarron not to run in on Clay.Tell 'em I've got him covered and to keep away. If they closed in onhim, they might blank my fire."

  When Jack was gone, Mr. Masterson again settled to his aim, picking outa spot under the right shoulder of Mr. Allison wherein to plant thebullet. "It's where I'd plug a buffalo bull," ruminated Mr. Masterson,"and it ought to do for Clay."

  Mr. Allison maintained his verbal flow unchecked. He had elocutionarygifts, had Mr. Allison, and flaunted them. Mingling scorn with reproach,and casting defiance over all, he spake in unmeasured terms of Dodge andits inhabitants. But never once did he lay hand to gun; it was solely anexhibition of rhetoric.

  Mr. Masterson waxed weary. There were spaces when the mills of Mr.Allison's vituperation ran low; at such intervals Mr. Masterson wouldtake the buffalo gun from his shoulder. Anon, Mr. Allison's choler wouldmount, his threats and maledictions against all things Dodgeian wouldsoar. Thereupon, hope would relight its taper in the eye of Mr.Masterson; he would again cover Mr. Allison with his buffalo gun. Mr.Allison's energy would again dwindle, and the light of hope again sinklow in the Masterson eye. The buffalo gun would be given another recess.First and last, by the later word of Mr. Masterson, Mr. Allison wascovered and uncovered twenty times. It was exceedingly fatiguing to Mr.Masterson, who was losing respect for Mr. Allison, as one all talk andno shoot.

  While Mr. Allison vituperated, his glance roved up and down the street.

  "What's the matter with him!" considered Mr. Masterson disgustedly. "Whydoesn't he throw himself loose!"

  Mr. Masterson's disgust became amazement when Mr. Allison turned in hissaddle, and asked in tones wherein was more of complaint than challenge:

  "Where's Bat Masterson? He's on the squar'! He won't let no cheap storeclerk put it all over me, an' get away! Where's Bat?"

  As though seeking reply, Mr. Allison in a most pacific manner got downfrom the saddle, and limped away out of range into Mr. Webster's Alamo.

  Mr. Masterson pitched the buffalo gun into a corner, put on his morepersonal artillery, and repaired to the Alamo with the thought ofinvestigating the phenomenon. In the Alamo he found Mr. Allison askingMr. Webster--who looked a bit pale--to send for Mr. Masterson.

  "Have somebody round Bat up," said Mr. Allison, peevishly. "Which I wanta talk with him about my injuries."

  "What's wrong, Clay?" asked Mr. Masterson--outwardly careless, inwardlyas alert as a bobcat. "What's gone wrong?"

  "Is that you, Bat?" demanded Mr. Allison, facing around on his lamefoot. "Wherever have you been for the last half hour? I've hunted youall over camp."

  "Where have I been for a half hour? I've been seesawing on you with aSharp's for the better part of it."

  "Is that so!" exclaimed Mr. Allison, while his face lighted up with akind of pleased conviction. "Thar, d'ye see now! While I was in thatsaddle I could feel I was covered every moment. It was the speritstellin' me! They kept warnin' me that if I batted an eye or wagged ayear I was a goner. It was shore one of them prov'dential hunches whichis told of by gospel sharps in pra'r-meetin's."

  Mr. Masterson's indignation was extreme when he had heard the story ofMr. Allison's ill usage. And at that, his anger rested upon the wrongsof Dodge rather than upon those of Mr. Allison.

  "One may now see," said Mr. Masterson, "the hole into which good peoplecan be put by a cowardly outcast of the Ground Owl type. That disgustingGround Owl might have been the means of killing a dozen men. Here heturns in an' stirs Clay up; and then, when he's got him keyed to concertpitch, he sneaks away and hides, and leaves us with Clay on our hands!"

  Cimarron Bill came into the Alamo; his brow turned dark with the scandalof those friendly relations between Mr. Masterson and Mr. Allison, whichhe saw and did not understand. Drawing aside, he stood moodily at theend of the bar, keeping a midnight eye the while on Mr. Allison,thirsting for an outbreak.

  Mr. Masterson approached him craftily--being diplomatic and having a mindto preserve the peace.

  "There's something I want you to do, Cimarron," said Mr. Masterson,easily. The other brightened. "No, not that!" continued Mr. Masterson,intercepting a savage look which Cimarron bestowed upon Mr. Allison,"not Clay."

  "Who then?" demanded Cimarron, greatly disappointed.

  "The other one," responded Mr. Masterson. "Still I don't want you tooverplay. You must use judgment, and while careful not to do too little,be equally careful not to do too much. This is the proposition: You areto go romancing 'round until you locate that miscreant Ground Owl. Oncelocated, you are to softly, yet sufficiently, bend a gun over his head."

  "Leave the Ground Owl to me," said Cimarron Bill, his buoyant naturebeginning to collect itself. As he went forth upon his mission, hetossed this assurance over his shoulder: "You gents'll hear a dog howl_poco tempo_, an' when you do you can gamble me an' that Ground Owlclerk has crossed up with one another."

  "That," observed Mr. Short, who arrived in time to hear the commissiongiven Cimarron Bill, "that's what I call gettin' action both ways fromthe jack. You split out Cimarron from Clay here; an' at the same timearrange to stampede that malignant Ground Owl out o' camp. Which Ialways allowed you had a head for business, Bat."

  Cimarron Bill was wrong. He did not cut the trail of the vermin GroundOwl--lying close beneath the alfalfa of Mr. Trask! Neither did any doghowl that day. But Dodge was victorious without. It was rid of theoffensive Ground Owl; when the sun went down that craven one creptforth, and fled by cloak of night.

  "Which it goes to show," explained Cimarron Bill, judgmatically, when aweek later he was recovered from the gloom into which Mr. Allison'sescape had plunged him, "which it goes to show that every cloud has asilver linin'. Clay saves himse'f; but that Ground Owl has to go. It's astand-off. We lose on Clay; but we shore win on that Ground Owl man."