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“‘Gents,’ says this locoed Crawfish, ‘I ain’t no boaster, but I offers a hundred to fifty, an’ stands to make it up to a thousand dollars in wool or sheep, Julius Caesar is the fattest an’ finest serpent in Arizona; also the best behaved.’

“Thar ain’t no one takin’ Crawfish’s bet. The moment he slams Julius on the bar, more’n ten of our leadin’ citizens falls to the floor in fits, an’ emerges outen one par’xysm only to slump into another. Which we shorely has a general round-up of all sorts of spells.

“‘Whatever’s the matter of you-all people?’ says Crawfish, lookin’ mighty aghast. ‘Thar’s no more harm in Julius Caesar than if he’s a fullblown rose.’

“Jack Moore, bein’ marshal, of course stands his hand. It’s his offishul dooty to play a pat hand on bull-snakes an’ danger in all an’ any forms. An’ Jack does it.

“While Crawfish is busy recountin’ the attainments of Julius Caesar, a-holdin’ of his pet with one hand, Jack Moore takes a snap shot at him along the bar with his six-shooter, an’ away goes Julius Caesar’s head like a puff of smoke. Then Moore rounds up Crawfish, an’, perceivin’ of the other bull-snakes, he searches ’em out one by one an’ massacres ’em.

“‘Call over Doc Peets,’ says Jack Moore final, ‘an’ bring Boggs an’ Tutt an’ the rest of these yere invalids to.’

“Doc Peets an’ Enright both trails in on the lope from the New York Store. They hears Moore’s gun-play an’ is cur’ous, nacheral ‘nough, to know who calls it. Well, they turns in an’ brings the other inhabitants outen their fits; pendin’ which Moore kills off the last remainin’ bull-snake in Crawfish’s herd.

“Son, I’ve seen people mad, an’ I’ve seen ’em gay, an’ I’ve seen ’em bit by grief. But I’m yere to remark I never runs up on a gent who goes plumb mad with sadness ontil I sees Crawfish that day Jack Moore immolates his bull-snake pets. He stands thar, white, an’ ain’t sayin’ a word. Looks for a minute like he can’t move. Crawfish don’t pack no gun, or I allers allowed we’d had notice of him some, while them bullsnakes is cashin’ in.

“But at last he sorter comes to, an’ walks out without sayin’ nothin’. They ain’t none of us regardin’ of him much at the time; bein’ busy drinkin’ an’ recoverin’ from the shock.

“Now, what do you s’pose this old Navajo does? Lopes straight over to the New York Store–is ca’m as a June day about it, too–an’ gets a six-shooter.

“The next information we gets of Crawfish, ‘bang!’ goes his new gun, an’ the bullet cuts along over Jack Moore’s head too high for results. New gun that a-way, an’ Crawfish not up on his practice; of course he overshoots.

“Well, the pore old murderer never does get a second crack. I reckons eight people he has interested shoots all at once, an’ Crawfish Jim quits this earthly deal unanimous. He stops every bullet; eight of ’em, like I says.

“‘Thar ain’t a man of us who don’t feel regrets; but what’s the use? Thar we be, up ag’inst the deal, with Crawfish clean locoed. It’s the only wagon-track out.

“‘I shore hopes he’s on the hot trail of them bull-snakes of his’n,’ says Dan Boggs, as we lays Crawfish out on a monte-table. ‘Seems like he thought monstrous well of ’em, an’ it would mighty likely please him to run up on ’em where he’s gone.’

“Whatever did we do? Why, we digs a grave out back of the dance-hall an’ plants Crawfish an’ his pets tharin.

“‘I reckons we better bury them reptiles, too,’ says Doc Peets, as we gets Crawfish stretched out all comfortable in the bottom. ‘If he’s lookin’ down on these yere ceremonies it’ll make him feel easier.’

“Doc Peets is mighty sentimental an’ romantic that a-way, an’ allers thinks of the touchin’ things to do, which I more’n once notices likewise, that a gent bein’ dead that a-way allers brings out the soft side of Peets’s nacher. You bet! he’s plumb sympathetic.