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“Oh, you do,” says I.

“Yes,” says he. “I’ve got to leave town for a couple of days, and I got to have somethin’ to pack.”

“Wait and I’ll see,” says I.

Outside the door I met another fellow.

“Look here,” he stops me with. “How about that bay mare I sold you? Can you call that sale off? I got to leave town for a day or two and–“

“Wait,” says I. “I’ll see.”

By the gate was another hurryin’ up.

“Oh, yes,” says I when he opens his mouth. “I know all your troubles. You have to leave town for a couple of days, and you want back that lizard you sold me. Well, wait.”

After that I had to quit the main street and dodge back of the hog ranch. They was all headed my way. I was as popular as a snake in a prohibition town.

I hit Dutchy’s by the back door.

“Do you want to sell hosses?” I asks. “Everyone in town wants to buy.”

Dutchy looked hurt.

“I wanted to keep them for the valley market,” says he, “but–How much did you give Jimmy Tack for his buckskin?”

“Twenty,” says I.

“Well, let him have it for eighty,” says Dutchy; “and the others in proportion.”

I lay back and breathed hard.

“Sell them all, but the one best hoss,” says he–“no, the TWO best.”

“Holy smoke!” says I, gettin’ my breath. “If you mean that, Dutchy, you lend me another gun and give me a drink.”

He done so, and I went back home to where the whole camp of Cyanide was waitin’.

I got up and made them a speech and told them I’d sell them hosses all right, and to come back. Then I got an Injin boy to help, and we rustled over the remuda and held them in a blind canon. Then I called up these miners one at a time, and made bargains with them. Roar! Well, you could hear them at Denver, they tell me, and the weather reports said, “Thunder in the mountains.” But it was cash on delivery, and they all paid up. They had seen that white quartz with the gold stickin’ into it, and that’s the same as a dose of loco to miner gents.

Why didn’t I take a hoss and start first? I did think of it–for about one second. I wouldn’t stay in that country then for a million dollars a minute. I was plumb sick and loathin’ it, and just waitin’ to make high jumps back to Arizona. So I wasn’t aimin’ to join this stampede, and didn’t have no vivid emotions.

They got to fightin’ on which should get the first hoss; so I bent my gun on them and made them draw lots. They roared some more, but done so; and as fast as each one handed over his dust or dinero he made a rush for his cabin, piled on his saddle and pack, and pulled his freight on a cloud of dust. It was sure a grand stampede, and I enjoyed it no limit.

So by sundown I was alone with the Injin. Those two hundred head brought in about twenty thousand dollars. It was heavy, but I could carry it. I was about alone in the landscape; and there were the two best hosses I had saved out for Dutchy. I was sure some tempted. But I had enough to get home on anyway; and I never yet drank behind the bar, even if I might hold up the saloon from the floor. So I grieved some inside that I was so tur’ble conscientious, shouldered the sacks, and went down to find Dutchy.

I met him headed his way, and carryin’ of a sheet of paper.

“Here’s your dinero,” says I, dumpin’ the four big sacks on the ground.

He stooped over and hefted them. Then he passed one over to me.

“What’s that for?” I asks.

“For you,” says he.

“My commission ain’t that much,” I objects.

“You’ve earned it,” says he, “and you might have skipped with the whole wad.”

“How did you know I wouldn’t?” I asks.

“Well,” says he, and I noted that jag of his had flew. “You see, I was behind that rock up there, and I had you covered.”

I saw; and I began to feel better about bein’ so tur’ble conscientious.

We walked a little ways without sayin’ nothin’.

“But ain’t you goin’ to join the game?” I asks.

“Guess not,” says he, jinglin’ of his gold. “I’m satisfied.”

“But if you don’t get a wiggle on you, you are sure goin’ to get left on those gold claims,” says I.

“There ain’t no gold claims,” says he.

“But Henry Smith–” I cries.

“There ain’t no Henry Smith,” says he.

I let that soak in about six inches.

“But there’s a Buck Canon,” I pleads. “Please say there’s a Buck Canon.”

“Oh, yes, there’s a Buck Canon,” he allows. “Nice limestone formation–make good hard water.”

“Well, you’re a marvel,” says I.

We walked together down to Dutchy’s saloon.

We stopped outside.

“Now,” says he, “I’m goin’ to take one of those hosses and go somewheres else. Maybe you’d better do likewise on the other.”

“You bet I will,” says I.

He turned around and taked up the paper he was carryin’. It was a sign. It read:

THE DUTCH HAS RUSTLED

“Nice sentiment,” says I. “It will be appreciated when the crowd comes back from that little pasear into Buck Canon. But why not tack her up where the trail hits the camp? Why on this particular door?”

“Well,” said Dutchy, squintin’ at the sign sideways, “you see I sold this place day before yesterday–to Mike O’Toole.”