Why,yes,me and the boys was bringing about two thousand head up to Abiline when we come on to this same pardner and another man walking the trail,with a little gal coming behind 'em on her pony.And it was this same gal.I reckon she was seven or eight year old,then.Well,sir,I just thought as I looked at her,that I never seen a prettier sight in this world and I reckon I ain't,for when I looked at the same gal the other day,the gun she was holding up to her eye sort of dazzled me so I couldn't take stock of all her good points.But seeing that little gal out there in the plains it was like hearing an old-fashioned hymn at the country meeting-house and knowing a big basket dinner was to follow.I can't express it more deep than that.We went into camp that evening,and all of us got pretty soft and mellow,what from the unusualness of the meeting,and we asked the old codger if we could all come over to his camp and shake hands with the gal--he'd drawed back from us about a mile,he was that skeered to be sociable.So after considerable haggling and jawing,he said we could,and here we come,just about sundown,all of us looking sheepish enough to be carved for mutton,but everlasting determined to take that gal by the paw.Well?said the young man who had often heard this story,but had never been treated to the sequel,what happened then,Mizzoo?You always stop at the same place.Didn't you shake hands with her?
The other ruminated in deep silence for some time,then rejoined,I don't know how it is--a fellow can talk about the worst devilment in creation with a free rein,and no words hot enough to blister his tongue,but let him run up against something ****** like that,and the bottom of his lungs seems to fall out.I guess they ain't no more to be told.That was all there was to it,though I might add that the next day we come along by old Whisky Simeon's joint that sets out on the sand-hills,you know,and we put spurs to our bronks and went whooping by,with old Whisky Sim a-staring and a-hollering after us like he thought we was crazy.I don't know as I had missed a drunk before for five year,when the materials was ready-found for its ******.And I ain't never forgot the little kid with the brown hair and the eyes that seen to your bottom layer,like a water-witch a-penetrating the ground with a glance,seeing through dirt and clay and rocks to what water they is.
Mizzoo relapsed into meditative silence,and the young man,in sympathy with his mood,kept at his side,no longer asking questions.Darkness came on and the hour grew late but few words were exchanged as they rode the weary miles that marked the limit of the range.There were the usual incidents of such work,each bringing its customary comments.The midnight luncheon beside a small fire,over which the coffee steamed,roused something like cheerful conversation which,however,flickered and flared uncertainly like the bonfire.On the whole the young man was unwontedly reserved,and the other,perceiving it,fell back contentedly on his own resources--pleasant memories and rank tobacco.
Guess I'll leave you now,remarked the young man,when the fire had died away.
Yes,better turn in,for you're most uncommon dull you know,Mizzoo replied frankly.'Twould be just about as much company for me if you'd hike out and leave me your picture to carry along.
Instead of taking the direction toward the river,the young man set out at a gallop for the distant mountain range which,in the gloom,seemed not far away.After an hour's hard riding,he reached it.His impatience bad made that hour seem almost interminable,yet it had not been long enough to furnish him with any clear reason for having come.If,as Mizzoo had declared,he needed sleep,he would surely not think of finding it near the cove from which his companions had been warned under penalty of death.If drawn by longing for another glimpse of the girl of the cove he could not expect to see her an hour or two after midnight.Yet here he was,attracted,and still urged on,by impulses he did not attempt to resist.
