looked, because he had seen Buffalo
Bill's show; and he knew how they talked, because he had read accurate
authors of the school of Bret Harte. He could even imagine the
romantic mountain maidens.

With his preconceived notions the country, in most particulars, tallied
interestingly. At first Bennington frequented the little town down the
draw. It answered fairly well to the story-book descriptions, but
proved a bit lively for him. The first day they lent him a horse. The
horse looked sleepy. It took him twenty minutes to get on the animal
and twenty seconds to fall off. There was an audience. They made him
purchase strange drinks at outlandish prices. After that they shot
holes all around his feet to induce him to dance. He had inherited an
obstinate streak from some of his forebears, and declined when it went
that far. They then did other things to him which were not pleasant.
Most of these pranks seemed to have been instigated by a laughing,
curly-haired young man named Fay. Fay had clear blue eyes, which seemed
always to mock you. He could think up more diabolical schemes in ten
minutes than the rest of the men in as many hours. Bennington came
shortly to hate this man Fay. His attentions had so much of the
gratuitous! For a number of days, even after the enjoyment of novelty
had worn off, the Easterner returned bravely to Spanish Gulch every
afternoon for the mail. It was a matter of pride with him. He did not
like to be bluffed out. But Fay was always there.

"Tender _foot!_" the latter would shriek joyously, and bear down on the
shrinking de Laney.

That would bring out the loafers. It all had to happen over again.

Bennington hoped that this performance would cease in time. It never
did.

By a mental process, unnecessary to trace here, he modified his first
views, and permitted Old Mizzou to get the mail. Spanish Gulch saw him
no more.

After all, it was quite as good Western experience to wander in the
hills. He did not regret the other. In fact, as he cast in review his
research in Wild West literature, he perceived that the incidents of
his town visits were the proper thing. He would not have had them
different--to look back on. They were inspiring--to write home about.
He recognised all the types--the miner, the gambler, the
saloon-keeper, the bad man, the cowboy, the prospector--just as though
they had stepped living from the pages of his classics. They had the
true slouch; they used the picturesqu