The Sunset Trail Page 8

  CHAPTER VII

  WHY THE WEEKLY PLANET DIED

  The _Weekly Planet_, founded and edited during its brief existence byHigginson Peabody, and issued every Saturday to the hebdomadal joy ofDodge, might have flourished unto this day if it hadn't been for Jack.It was a circulation scheme proposed by Jack, and adopted by HigginsonPeabody, which undid the destinies of the _Weekly Planet_ to such adegree that, in the quicksands of a bottomless trouble into which theywere thereby betrayed, a trouble, as Higginson Peabody averred, "sovast, that against it no human ingenuity could prevail," they boggeddown and disappeared.

  Not but what Jack was wholly true to the _Weekly Planet_ and itsfortunes. Indeed it was Jack, in his intense loyalty to the paper andthose that gave it the aid and comfort of their countenance, and despitethe fact that Mr. Masterson's recommendation had originally paved hisway into journalism, who misled that officer as to the flight-directiontaken by Rattlesnake Sanders on the occasion of his winging Mr. Kelly.Perhaps, in defence of Jack, that episode should be briefly told.

  Rattlesnake Sanders played a cold hand, being four kings and an ace,against a quartette of queens, the then armament of Mr. Kelly. Mr. Kellypointed out the frigid character of those four kings, and thereuponRattlesnake, in a feeling of chagrin natural to one who finds himselfdetected in a wrong, shot Mr. Kelly in the arm. Following thisebuillition of temper, Rattlesnake mounted his pony and spurred away intothe dark.

  The office of the _Weekly Planet_ was on the northern fringe of Dodge.It was ten o'clock of the night when Rattlesnake expressed hisdissatisfaction with Mr. Kelly in manner and form set forth. Theeditorial and mechanical forces of the _Weekly Planet_, made up ofHigginson Peabody, Jack, and a trio of printers, were hard at work atthe time and knew nothing of Rattlesnake and his exploits. Indeed, theearliest word which they received of Rattlesnake was when that impulsivecowboy pulled up at their door.

  The cause of Rattlesnake's pulling up was simple. When he and Mr. Kellysat down to that friendly game, which in its finale was sodisappointing, Rattlesnake, the evening being warm, had cast aside hiscoat and hat. Being more or less preoccupied when ready to leave, heforgot to reassume those garments. His halt at the _Weekly Planet_ waswith a purpose of repairs.

  Bare of head and coatless, Rattlesnake called from the saddle toHigginson Peabody. The latter, with Jack at his elbow, appeared in thedoor.

  "Got a hat and coat you don't want?" asked Rattlesnake.

  There were two six-shooters in the belt of Rattlesnake and a Winchesterin its saddle-scabbard under his left leg, and it may have been thisstock of ironware that awoke the generosity of Higginson Peabody.Whatever it was to move his benevolence, the truth remains that he tookhis own hat and coat from their peg and conferred them on Rattlesnake.

  As he picked up the bridle reins to ride away Rattlesnake ran his handinto his pocket.

  "What's the damage?" he queried.

  "Nothing," returned Higginson Peabody; "they are freely yours."

  "What's the subscription to this rag?" asked Rattlesnake, pointing up atthe sign above the door. "How much does she cost for a year?"

  "Two dollars," broke in Jack, who was the circulating agency of the_Weekly Planet_.

  "Thar's a saw-buck," quoth Rattlesnake, bringing up a ten-dollargoldpiece and tossing it to Jack. "Put down Rattlesnake Sanders for fiveyears." Then, as he buried a spur in his pony's flank and fled like anarrow: "I'll send th' address as soon as I settle down."

  When Rattlesnake Sanders injured Mr. Kelly's arm Mr. Masterson was atthe other end of town. It was ten minutes before he heard of the gaydoings of Rattlesnake. When word reached him he threw a saddle onto apony and started in pursuit. Mr. Masterson also halted at the open doorof the _Weekly Planet_, only he was after information, not apparel.

  "Did you see a cowboy without coat or hat go by?" asked Mr. Masterson,on the bare chance that the phenomenon had caught the eye of HigginsonPeabody.

  "I just gave one my coat and hat," replied Higginson Peabody.

  "It was Rattlesnake Sanders," said Mr. Masterson, settling himself inhis stirrups for a run. "He's creased Kelly. Which way did he go?"

  Before Higginson Peabody could answer, Jack took reply from his mouth.

  "I'll show you, Mr. Masterson," observed the eager Jack, pointingwestward towards the Cimarron Crossing. "He lined out in that direction.An' say, he was simply hittin' the high places!"

  Now, be it known that Rattlesnake had fled away to the north and east,as though heading for Hays--a course the reverse of that given by Jack.The intervention, and the brisk falsehoods so cheerfully fulminated,took away the breath of Higginson Peabody. Before he regained it Mr.Masterson was a mile on his way to the Cimarron Crossing.

  "How could you lie like that?" demanded Higginson Peabody, regardingJack with wondering horror; "how could you lie like that, and you butfourteen! That Rattlesnake man went east, not west; and Mr. Masterson isan officer of the law!"

  "What of it?" retorted Jack, indignantly; "d'you think I'd throw down asubscriber?" Then, as he reached for his cap: "I reckon I'd better goover to the Alhambra an' see how hard old Kell got plugged. It ought tobe good for a column. Say!" and Jack beamed on Higginson Peabody, "ifhe'd only beefed old Kell, wouldn't it have been hot stuff?"

  Higginson Peabody, when he graduated from Harvard, had been invited intothe counting-room of his father's State Street bank. But the oldmigratory instinct of his puritan ancestry was rife within him, and hehungered to go abroad into the land. The expanding West invited him;also, he distasted a bank and liked the notion of a paper.

  "Well," said the elder Peabody, "I don't blame you. Massachusetts andBoston aren't what they were. New England to-day is out in Kansas andNebraska."

  Higginson Peabody resolved to start a paper. Dodge occurred to him; afriend returning had told him that newsy things were prone to happen inDodge. The soil, by the friend's word, was kindly; Higginson Peabodythought it would nourish and upbuild a paper. Wherefore, one brightautumnal morning, he dropped off at Dodge. Going over to the hotel hetook a room by the month and confided to Mr. Wright that he would foundthe _Weekly Planet_.

  Mr. Wright squeezed the hand of Higginson Peabody until it hung limp asa rag.

  "It was an inspiration when you decided to come to Dodge," said Mr.Wright.

  "Do you think," asked Higginson Peabody, painfully separating eachfinger from its fellows, "do you think your city ready for the birth ofa great paper?"

  "Ready? Dodge'll sit up nights to rock its cradle and warm its milk!"quoth Mr. Wright.

  Mr. Wright went down to the Long Branch and told Mr. Short. Asinformation radiated from the Long Branch the extremest corner of Dodgewas filled with the news in an hour.

  When Mr. Wright withdrew to the Long Branch he left Higginson Peabodysitting on the hotel porch. The costume of Higginson Peabody culminatedin a silk hat that would have looked well on Boston Common. The tall,shiny hat excited the primitive interest of Cimarron Bill, who lightlyshot it from the head of its owner. Then, with bullet following bullet,he rolled it along the sidewalk. Several gentlemen joined Cimarron Billin this sprightly pastime of the hat. Full twenty took part, andHigginson Peabody's headgear, to quote Cimarron Bill as he reported theepisode later to Mr. Masterson, was:

  "A heap shot up."

  "He's an editor," warned Mr. Masterson, "and going to start a paper.Mind, you mustn't hurt him!"

  "Hurt him!" retorted Cimarron Bill. "If I do I hope to go afoot thebalance of my life--I do, shore!"

  Mr. Wright returned from the Long Branch, bringing Mr. Short. HigginsonPeabody mentioned the adventures of his hat.

  "It's my fault," said Mr. Wright; "I'd ought to have told you. Thatbreed of war-bonnet is ag'inst the rules of our set."

  "That's right," coincided Mr. Short; "only sooicides wear 'em in Dodge."

  "We'll fix it," observed Mr. Wright, who noticed that Higginson Peabodylooked cast down. "What's the size of your head?"

  "Seven and an eighth," returned H
igginson Peabody, doubtfully.

  "Seven and an eighth!" repeated Mr. Wright: "It'll grow in Dodge. See ifit ain't two sizes larger in a month."

  Mr. Wright sent over to that mart whereof he was proprietor, andpresently a pearl-gray sombrero appeared.

  "There you are!" exclaimed Mr. Wright. "As good a Stetson as ever rodein a round-up! Price? Not a word! I'll take it out in advertising."

  Mr. Wright became as an elder brother to Higginson Peabody. On themorning following the latter's advent the two sat convenient to thehotel bar and talked of Indians. That is, Mr. Wright talked of Indians,and Higginson Peabody gulped and listened, pale of cheek.

  Mr. Wright said a Cheyenne was as full of the unexpected as a career inWall Street. He hoped the Cheyennes wouldn't kill and scalp anybodyabout Dodge between then and Christmas. Mr. Wright set his limit atChristmas because that was three months away, and three months was aslong as even an optimist was licensed to hope anything of a Cheyenne.

  No, Mr. Wright did not think the Cheyennes would immediately botherDodge. They were busy with the buffaloes at that season. Moreover, therewere a number of buffalo hunters along the Medicine Lodge and theCimarron whom they, the Cheyennes, might capture and burn at the stake.This would, so Mr. Wright argued, slake the Cheyenne thirst forimmediate amusement. Later, when they had burned up that year's stock ofbuffalo hunters and were suffering from ennui, the Cheyennes woulddoubtless visit Dodge.

  "But," declared Mr. Wright, triumphantly, "we generally beat 'em off.They never capture or kill more'n fifty of us before we have 'em routed.Sure; we down three times as many of them as they do of us. Whichreminds me: come down to Kelly's Alhambra and let me show you thehead-dresses and bead jackets we shucked from the last outfit we wipedout."

  Mr. Wright exhibited to Higginson Peabody what trophies had been broughtnorth from the 'Dobe Walls and were then adorning the walls of theAlhambra. Also, he had Mr. Kelly, who was their custodian, bring out theeighty scalps, and counted them into the shrinking fingers of HigginsonPeabody, who handled them gingerly. They were one and all, so Mr. Wrightaverred, stripped from slaughtered Cheyennes in the streets of Dodge.

  "Isn't that so, Kell?" asked Mr. Wright, appealing to Mr. Kelly.

  "Shore!" assented Mr. Kelly. Then, by way of particular corroborationand picking out a brace of scalps whereof the braided hair was unusuallylong and glossy, "I killed an' skelped these two right yere in thes'loon."

  Higginson Peabody was impressed and said he would one day write up whathe had heard for the _Weekly Planet_.

  Mr. Wright invited Higginson Peabody to explore the region lying back ofDodge. They would make the trip on ponies. Mr. Wright held that theexploration was requisite to the right editing of a local paper.

  "For how," demanded Mr. Wright, plausibly, "can you get out a paper andknow nothing of the country you're in? As for Cheyennes, you needentertain no fear. You'll have a pony under you that can beat anantelope."

  Higginson Peabody, with Mr. Wright as guide, philosopher and friend,broke into the gray rolling desert to the north of Dodge. At the end ofthe first mile Dodge dropped out of sight behind a swell and HigginsonPeabody found himself surrounded by naught save the shadowless plains--asgrimly stark as when they slipped from the palm of the Infinite! Thevery picture of loneliness, the scene pressed upon the unsophisticatedsensibilities of Higginson Peabody like a menace. He wanted to return toDodge, but he didn't like to say so.

  Mr. Wright became replete of reminiscences. He showed Higginson Peabodywhere a party of emigrants had been butchered by the Cheyennes onlyeight weeks before.

  By the side of a water hole Mr. Wright pointed to the ashes of a fire.The Cheyennes had there grilled a victim on the coals.

  "You see," explained Mr. Wright, in apology for the Cheyennes, "theydidn't have any stake. The best they could do was tie him, wrist andheel, toss him in the fire and then keep him there with their lances."

  "Was he from Dodge?" faltered Higginson Peabody.

  "No," said Mr. Wright, carelessly, "if my memory serves, he was a sotfrom Abilene."

  Ten minutes later they were winding along a dry arroya.

  "What's that?" exclaimed Mr. Wright, and he leaped from his pony.

  Mr. Wright held up a moccasin which, apparently, he had taken from theground.

  "Cheyenne," said Mr. Wright, sinking his voice to a whisper. "Warm, too;that moccasin was on its owner not five minutes ago!"

  Higginson Peabody took the buckskin footgear in his hands, which shook alittle. The moccasin _was_ warm. It could hardly have been otherwisesince Mr. Wright had carried it in an inside pocket.

  Mr. Wright glanced furtively about.

  "We'd better skin out for Dodge," said he.

  Higginson Peabody wheeled, being quite in the humour for Dodge. He wason the threshold of saying so when a medley of yelps and yells brokeforth. Higginson Peabody cast a look to the rear; a score of befeatheredand ochre-bedabbled demons were in open cry not a furlong away.

  Mr. Wright had made no idle brag when he said the pony bestrode byHigginson Peabody could outstrip an antelope. The latter gave thatanimal its head and the scenery began racing rearward in aslate-coloured blur. Mr. Wright's pony was panting on the flank of itsflying mate.

  "Ride hard!" shouted Mr. Wright. "To be captured is death by torture!"

  Higginson Peabody did ride hard. There was a rattle of rifles andsix-shooters; the high lead ripped and whined and whistled--new sounds tothe shrinking ears of Higginson Peabody! Now and again a bulletscuttered along the ground to right or left and threw up ominous pinchesof dust. Suddenly Mr. Wright reeled in the saddle.

  "Save yourself!" he gasped. "Tell Masterson and the boys----"

  The rest was lost to Higginson Peabody, for Mr. Wright's pony, evidentlyas badly wounded as its rider, began falling to the rear.

  On tore Higginson Peabody. Dodge at last! Drawing a deep breath he sweptdown the main street like a tornado.

  "Indians! Indians!" yelled Higginson Peabody.

  Arriving opposite its home corral the pony set four hoofs and skated;recovering, it wheeled to the left. Higginson Peabody, by these abruptmanoeuvres, was spilled from the saddle "like a pup from a basket,"according to Mr. Kelly, who watched the ceremony from the Alhambra door.

  Higginson Peabody reached the grass in a convenient ball. After aprolonged roll of twenty feet he scrambled up uninjured.

  "Get your guns!" he cried to Mr. Kelly, and then began to run.

  It was afterward a matter of regret in Dodge that no arrangements hadbeen made for timing Higginson Peabody. He had only covered one hundredyards when he ran into the arms of Mr. Masterson, but it was thedispassionate judgment of both Mr. Kelly and Mr. Short, who, from theirrespective houses of entertainment, reviewed the feat, that he did thoseone hundred yards in better than ten seconds. Indeed, so much waspopular admiration excited by the winged work of Higginson Peabody that,in commemoration thereof, Dodge renamed him the "Jackrabbit," by whichhonourable appellation he was ever afterward known to its generousinhabitants.

  "Get your guns!" shouted Higginson Peabody when stopped by the outspreadarms.

  "What's the trouble?" asked Mr. Masterson.

  "Indians!" yelled the fugitive, making an effort to resume his flight.

  "Come," said Mr. Masterson, refusing to be shaken off, "it's only ajoke. What you need now is a drink. Let's push for Luke Short's."

  While Higginson Peabody stood at the Long Branch bar and restored thatconfidence in his fellow-men which a two-days' stay in Dodge had donemuch to shake, Cimarron Bill and a select bevy, clad in full Cheyenneregalia, faces painted, blankets flying, feathers tossing, came whoopingdown the street. They jumped from their steaming ponies and joined Mr.Masterson and their victim.

  "The drinks is on me!" shouted Cimarron Bill, giving the counter aresounding slap. "Which I'm as dry as a covered bridge!"

  "The drinks is on the house," said Mr. Short, severely. Then toHigginson Peabody, "Here's to you, stranger! An' let me
say," concludedMr. Short, while a colour of compliment showed through his tones, "thatif ever you do run a footrace I'll string my money on you."

  As he considered the incident, Higginson Peabody was inclined to refusethe boon of Mr. Wright's further acquaintance, but Mr. Masterson and Mr.Kelly explained that to do so would be regarded, by the liberalsentiment of Dodge, as churlish in the extreme.

  "That scamper into camp," urged Mr. Kelly, "oughtn't to count. It's onlyfolks we like an' intend to adopt into our midst on whom we confer themrites of initiation."

  "That's whatever," observed Cimarron Bill, who came up. "Which we shorewouldn't take that much trouble with any gent onless we liked him."

  During his last year at Harvard Higginson Peabody edited the collegepaper, and that, when he landed in Dodge, had been the whole of hisjournalistic experience. While he conducted that vehicle of collegeinformation his one notable triumph was an article on Bible reading, inwhich he urged that all Bibles be bound in red. He pointed out aninherent interest to abide in red and quoted its effect on turkeygobblers. On the other hand, black, the usual cover-colour of Bibles,was a hue sorrowful and repellant; so far from inviting human interest,it daunted it. Higginson Peabody insisted that were every copy of thescriptures bound in red a score would read where only one perused themin their black uniform of gloom. This article gained him the complimentof a reprimand from the university heads and an accusation on the partof rivals that he was trying to promote an importance for his collegecolours.

  Notwithstanding this meagre apprenticeship in journalism HigginsonPeabody, from its initial issue, made the _Weekly Planet_ a highlyreadable paper. This was peculiarly the case after he, on Mr.Masterson's endorsement, had added Jack to his staff. It was Jack whobrought in those spicy personal items which told in complimentaryfashion the daily or rather nightly doings at Mr. Kelly's Alhambra, Mr.Short's Long Branch, Mr. Webster's Alamo, and Mr. Peacock's Dance Hall,to say nothing of the Dodge Opera House and Mr. Wright's store, andwhich caused every reader to pick up the paper with pleasure and lay itdown with regret. Also, it was Jack who taught Higginson Peabody themoney value of a line of advertising that published cattle brands andset forth the boundaries of ranges, so that round-up outfits mightintelligently hold the herds and cut out each ranchman's cattle in whatregions they belonged. Indeed, with Jack at his elbow Higginson Peabodycarried the _Weekly Planet_ to a point where it almost paid.

  It was when the _Weekly Planet_ had counted its thirteenth issue thatHigginson Peabody took up the question of a circulation. At that timethe paper owned but thirty-four subscribers. Dodge was small; the papercould be passed from hand to hand; those thirty-four copies, during theseven days when they were fresh, were read and appreciated by every eyein Dodge. Under such circumstances thirty-four copies would be enough;the demands of Dodge did not call for any more. Clearly, some argumentbeyond the argument of mere news was required to build up a _WeeklyPlanet_ circulation.

  Higginson Peabody, in conference with Jack, said that he thought ofstarting a baby contest. The paper would offer a prize for the mostbeautiful baby in Dodge.

  Jack stood like a rock against this proposition. He showed how in allDodge there were but two babies, and that the mother in each marvellousinstance held her darling to be a cherub fresh descended from on high.That mother would make trouble for the _Weekly Planet_ and all connectedtherewith if any rival infant were pitched upon as that cherub'ssuperior.

  "The mother," said Jack, ominously, "whose young one got beat would lether hair down her back, give her war-yell, and simply leave the _WeeklyPlanet_ on both sides of the Arkansaw. Besides, that gent don't jingle aspur in Dodge who's game to act as judge. But," continued Jack, whenHigginson Peabody, impressed by the serpent-like wisdom of his youngassistant, had abandoned every notion of a baby contest, "I've thoughtup a play that ought to make the paper as popular as tortillas with aMexican. How about a pie contest? Wouldn't that meet the needs of thehour?" And Jack's mouth took on an unctuous expression.

  Jack explained his scheme. The _Weekly Planet_ would offer a five-years'subscription, free, for the best pie, any sort or species, sent to itseditorial rooms, accompanied by the name of the authoress, within fourcalendar weeks of the announcement.

  "We want to personally interest the ladies," said Jack, "and a piecontest will do it."

  Higginson Peabody was struck by the original force of Jack's suggestion.Hailing from what Mr. Warner called "the region of perpetual pie," hecould appreciate its merits. He put but one question:

  "Whom shall we name as judge?" Higginson Peabody also added that it wasbeyond his own genius to act in that capacity, alleging a dyspepsia.

  Jack's eyes lit up like the windows of a hurdy-gurdy on the evening of afandango.

  "I'll be judge," said Jack.

  The value of a pie contest as a spur to circulation gained immediateexhibition. The _Weekly Planet_ jumped from thirty-four to one hundredand ten, and new subscriptions coming every hour.

  Also, pies began to appear--pies of every kind. There was the morosemince, the cheerful dried apple, the sedate pumpkin, the consolingcustard, the flippant plum; every variety of dried or canned goods onMr. Wright's broad shelves was drawn upon to become the basis of pie.

  Since no limit had been placed upon her labours, every fair contestantsent ardent scores of entries. Lest one baking had been slightly burnedon the under crust, each lady broke forth in further bakings, and by theend of the second day of that rivalry pies had accumulated on thepremises of the _Weekly Planet_ by the gross. They were stacked up intiers of twelve on the editorial table, they covered printing-press andmake-up stones, there were no chairs left and hardly room remained tomove about among the cases because of pies. And the end was not yet; thethird day opened with an aggregate consignment of eighty pies, and eachconfection a hopeful claimant of that five-years' free subscription.

  When Jack evolved a pie contest he had no foreknowledge of what would beits fatal popularity. In proposing to act as judge of that pastrycompetition he in no wise foresaw the pie-deluge which would set in.Still, being of the material from which heroes are made, Jack borehimself doughtily. The first day he ate twenty-eight pies; the secondday he got no further than twenty; on the third day, with two hundreduntouched pies awaiting his sampling tooth, Jack fell ill.

  "Of course," said Jack, feebly, "I could go on, I s'ppose, and I'll sellmy life dearly; but what's the use? What could one boy do against twohundred pies?"

  Jack was undeniably ill, but as one whose spirit remains unconquerable,he would not go to bed. Although he could not look at a pie, he appearedabout the office, like some criminal ghost obliged to haunt the scenesof its malefactions. And Jack was still capable of a suggestion. It wasby his word that the three printers were named as an auxiliarycommission to aid in forming an official judgment of those pies.

  It was of scant avail. At the close of the fifth day the foreman came toHigginson Peabody wearing a look of defeat. Even three printers had beenpowerless before that storm of pie.

  "Bill's down an' out," said the foreman, dejectedly. Bill was one of thetwo journeymen printers. "It was a lemon pie Miss Casey made thatfloored him. To get the kinks out o' Bill I had to give him a gallon ofKelly's best Old Jordan, an' at that he ain't been the same man since."

  "What shall we do?" queried Higginson Peabody, desperately. "We'll beburied alive beneath an avalanche of pie!"

  The foreman was a fertile printer, and thought he might find a purchaserfor those pies. Higginson Peabody recklessly authorised him in thatbehalf. Borrowing a pony from Mr. Trask's corral, the foreman went toCimarron and arranged for the disposal of present as well as future piesat the rate of a dollar the dozen pies, to Mr. Ingalls of the Golden Rodrestaurant. The following evening the premises of the _Weekly Planet_were happily free from pies, and the greenish cast in Jack's cheek wasgiving way to the old-time hue of boyish health.

  No harm would have come, and the _Weekly Planet_ might have continued inits useful orbit und
isturbed, had it not been for a visit that AuntNettie Dawson paid to Cimarron. Aunt Nettie was sedately walking inCimarron's only thoroughfare, intent on naught save a social hour with avalued friend, resident of that hamlet, when her glance was arrested bya certain pie in the window of the Golden Rod. It was of the mincefamily, and its top crust was ornamented with sundry nicks andflourishes, made by the point of a knife, and which in their wholeeffect resembled the remains of a pair of centipedes that had met aviolent death. Aunt Nettie put on her glasses, took a second look tomake sure, and then stalked into the Golden Rod, demanding itsproprietor by name.

  "Wherever did you-all get my pie, Bill Ingalls?" was the question whichAunt Nettie put. The frown that darkened her brow was like a threat.

  Mr. Ingalls, commonly, was a brave and truthful man, and yet he toldAunt Nettie that he didn't know. Mr. Ingalls said that the particularpie to which she pointed was a mystery and its origin wrapped in fog.Aunt Nettie snorted.

  "You needn't lie to me, Bill Ingalls," she retorted; "you got it of thatbeanstalk editor. I'll show that cheap Yankee who he's foolin' with assoon as ever I see Dodge ag'in."

  Higginson Peabody was discussing some subject of _Weekly Planet_ economywith Jack when Aunt Nettie came in. Jack, being a frontier lad and keento every sign of danger, realised the storm in its approach and fled forMr. Masterson. His chief, less alive to the peril, turned pleasantly onAunt Nettie.

  "What can I do, Miss Dawson?" he said.

  "Where's that mince I sent y' yisterday?" demanded Aunt Nettie, manneras brittle and as hard as glass. "It's got two fern leaves marked on thekiver."

  Higginson Peabody said never a word; panting like some trapped animal,he could only look at Aunt Nettie. Then Aunt Nettie unfurled the storyof his perfidy.

  "An' so," said Aunt Nettie, in sour conclusion, "you allowed you'ddee-fraud us ladies of Dodge into bakin' onlimited pies for themdrunkards over in Cimarron!"

  Aunt Nettie made a house to house canvass and told each lady the storyof their mutual wrongs. There was a scurrying round-up of shawls andshakers. Within thirty minutes fourscore pie contestants, Aunt Nettie attheir angry head, were moving on the office of the _Weekly Planet_. Theyfound the door closed and locked. Mr. Masterson, urged by Jack andrealising the danger, had been before them. By advice of that triedstrategist Higginson Peabody had barricaded his portals. He dragged theoffice counter across the locked door and then cowered behind doubledefences, fearing the worst.

  "Never mind," said Aunt Nettie, addressing her injured sisters, "he'ssimply got to come out, an' we'll jest nacherally camp on his doorsteptill he does." This last ferociously.

  The _Weekly Planet_ was in a state of siege, and word of thatbeleaguerment went through Dodge like wildfire. With scared faces Mr.Wright, Mr. Masterson, Mr. Short, Mr. Trask, Mr. Kelly and others amongthe town's bravest spirits, gathered for conference in the Long Branch.

  "What are we to do?" asked Mr. Masterson, anxiously. "I don't want to beunderstood as shirking a duty, but if I'd known there was to be any suchfeminine uprising as this I'd never been sheriff of Ford."

  Mr. Wright made a despairing gesture.

  "I haven't," said Mr. Wright, "felt so he'pless an' unprotected sinceMr. Lee's surrender."

  "What be we to do?" and Mr. Kelly repeated Mr. Masterson's question.Then, as though making reply: "Whatever can we do? Thar's them ladies onthe warpath, an' Aunt Nettie at their head! She's that inflexible,granite's easy to her! An' as for courage, Aunt Nettie teaches it.Thar's nothin' she's feared of on four legs or two."

  "Yes thar is," interjected Cimarron Bill, who stood listening. "WhichAunt Nettie's timid of cows."

  There was a suggestion in the remark; strung like a bow by thedifficulties of the situation Mr. Masterson seized upon it. Two words toCimarron Bill and in another moment that hard-riding gentleman and adozen hard-riding companions were cinching the hulls onto their poniesin Mr. Trask's corral. Once in the saddle, away they tore for the riverand began scrambling across, through deeps and shallows, with dire riotand uproar.

  On the south side of the river, up to their stolid knees in the rankgrasses, were from fifty to one hundred head of cattle. These tossedwondering horns and blew loudly through their noses as Cimarron Bill andhis mates came charging across. Their ruminations suffered furtherdisturbance when, with headlong speed, those charging ones fell bodilyupon them, rounded them up, hurled them into the river and sent them forthe north bank on the jump. With bellow of protest the outraged cattlewere rushed along. Once on the north bank they were cleverly bunchedand, still on the canter, swung down on the office of the _WeeklyPlanet_.

  The first to observe the approach of that horned phalanx, with theurgent riders whooping and dashing about in the rear, was Miss Casey ofthe lemon pies.

  "Oh, look at them awful cows, Miss Dawson, dear!" she screamed, andpointed with horrified finger.

  Not alone Aunt Nettie, but every lady looked. It was enough; there was achorus of squeaks, a vast flutter of skirts, and the fair vigilantes,gathered to revenge their betrayed pies, had scattered like a flock ofblackbirds. Aunt Nettie was the last to go. She gazed at the oncomingcattle as they swept down upon the _Weekly Planet_, with lowered hornand steamy nostril; she identified her recreant nephew, Cimarron Bill,and knew the whole as a masterpiece of Mastersonian diplomacy.

  "The cowards!" she exclaimed. Then Aunt Nettie clawed her petticoatsabout her and skurried after the others. The next moment the pushing,milling, foaming band were jammed and held about the building of the_Weekly Planet_. The ruse had worked, the siege was lifted.

  Mr. Masterson, on his best pony and with a lead pony by the bridle, madehis way through the herd to the door.

  "Don't waste a moment," cried Mr. Masterson to Higginson Peabody,tossing him the reins of the lead pony the moment that journalist couldbe prevailed on to open his doors; "into the saddle with you and headfor Cimarron. As sheriff of Ford I'll see you safe as far as the countyline."

  When Mr. Masterson, with Higginson Peabody, drew bridle at the boundaryline between Ford and Gray counties, Mr. Masterson gave the other hishand.

  "Look out for yourself," he said; "catch the express for the East!"

  "Don't you think," inquired Higginson Peabody, quaveringly, "that afterthe excitement cools off I can come back?"

  Mr. Masterson firmly shook his head.

  "There isn't a chance," said he. "If they were white men, or evenCheyennes, I'd say 'Yes.' But they're ladies, and you know what ladiesare! I'm reckoned a judge in matters of life and death, and I tell youfrankly that if it were twenty years from now, and you showed up inDodge, I wouldn't guarantee your game a moment."