"Meanwhile the angel kept urging Uncle Dave forward to salute the throne.But he loitered along, meeting former hunting acquaintances, and stopping with each for a social chat.When they finally neared the throne, the patience of the angel was nearly exhausted; and as old Dave looked up and saw Colonel Andrews occupying the throne, he rebelled and refused to salute, when the angel wrathfully led him back to the gate and kicked him out among his dogs."Jack Splann told a yarn about the friendship of a pet lamb and dog which he owned when a boy.It was so unreasonable that he was interrupted on nearly every assertion.Long before he had finished, Sponsilier checked his narrative and informed him that if he insisted on doling out fiction he must have some consideration for his listeners, and at least tell it within reason.Splann stopped right there and refused to conclude his story, though no one but myself seemed to regret it.I had a true incident about a dog which I expected to tell, but the audience had become too critical, and I kept quiet.As it was evident that no more dog stories would be told, the conversation was allowed to drift at will.The recent shooting on the North Platte had been witnessed by nearly every one present, and was suggestive of other scenes.
"I have always contended," said Dorg Seay, "that the man who can control his temper always shoots the truest.You take one of these fellows that can smile and shoot at the same time--they are the boys that I want to stand in with.But speaking of losing the temper, did any of you ever see a woman real angry,--not merely cross, but the tigress in her raging and thirsting to tear you limb from limb? I did only once, but I have never forgotten the occasion.In supreme anger the only superior to this woman I ever witnessed was Captain Cartwright when he shot the slayer of his only son.He was as cool as a cucumber, as his only shot proved, but years afterward when he told me of the incident, he lost all control of himself, and fire flashed from his eyes like from the muzzle of a sixshooter.'Dorg,' said he, unconsciously shaking me like a terrier does a rat, his blazing eyes not a foot from my face,'dorg, when I shot that cowardly---- --, I didn't miss the centre of his forehead the width of my thumb nail.'
"But this woman defied a throng of men.Quite a few of the crowd had assisted the night before in lynching her husband, and this meeting occurred at the burying-ground the next afternoon.The woman's husband was a well-known horse-thief, a dissolute, dangerous character, and had been warned to leave the community.
He lived in a little village, and after darkness the evening before, had crept up to a window and shot a man sitting at the supper-table with his family.The murderer had harbored a grudge against his victim, had made threats, and before he could escape, was caught red-handed with the freshly fired pistol in his hand.
The evidence of guilt was beyond question, and a vigilance committee didn't waste any time in hanging him to the nearest tree.
"The burying took place the next afternoon.The murdered man was a popular citizen, and the village and country turned out to pay their last respects.But when the services were over, a number of us lingered behind, as it was understood that the slayer as well as his victim would be interred in the same grounds.A second grave had been prepared, and within an hour a wagon containing a woman, three small children, and several Mexicans drove up to the rear side of the inelosure.There was no mistaking the party, the coffin was carried in to the open grave, when every one present went over to offer friendly services.But as we neared the little group the woman picked up a shovel and charged on us like a tigress.I never saw such an expression of mingled anger and anguish in a human countenance as was pictured in that woman s face.We shrank from her as if she had been a lioness, and when at last she found her tongue, every word cut like a lash.Livid with rage, the spittle frothing from her mouth, she drove us away, saying: "Oh, you fiends of hell, when did I ask your help?
Like the curs you are, you would lick up the blood of your victim! Had you been friends to me or mine, why did you not raise your voice in protest when they were strangling the life out of the father of my children? Away, you cowardly hounds! I've hired a few Mexicans to help me, and I want none of your sympathy in this hour.Was it your hand that cut him down from the tree this morning, and if it was not, why do I need you now? Is my shame not enough in your eyes but that you must taunt me further? Do my innocent children want to look upon the faces of those who robbed them of a father? If there is a spark of manhood left in one of you, show it by leaving me alone! And you other scum, never fear but that you will clutter hell in reward for last night's work.
Begone, and leave me with my dead!
The circus had ended.The lateness of the hour was unobserved by any one until John Levering asked me if he should bring in my horse.It lacked less than half an hour until the guards should change, and it was high time our outfit was riding for camp.The innate modesty of my wrangler, in calling attention to the time, was not forgotten, but instead of permitting him to turn servant, I asked him to help our cook look after his utensils.On my return to the wagon, Parent was trying to quiet a nervous horse so as to allow him to carry the Dutch oven returning.But as Levering was in the act of handing up the heavy oven, one of Forrest's men, hoping to make the animal buck, attempted to place a briar stem under the horse's tail.Sponsilier detected the movement in time to stop it, and turning to the culprit, said:
"None of that, my bully boy.I have no objection to killing a cheap cow-hand, but these cooks have won me, hands down.If ever I run across a girl who can make as good pies as we had for supper, she can win the affections of my young and trusting heart."
