ot-pie for breakfast, and with that intent, during the afternoon, he
killed two dozen partridges. The bird was very plentiful, and instead of
picking them for a pot-pie, skinning such a number was much quicker. In
the hurry and bustle of making the camp snug for the night, every one
was busy, the sheriff in particular, in dressing his bag of quail. On
finishing the task, he asked a Mexican to pour some water, and the horse
wrangler reached into the wagon, at random, and emptied a small jug into
the vessel containing the dressed birds.

"The big fellow adjourned to the rear and proceeded to wash and drain
his quail. After some little time, he called to the cook: 'Ignacio, I
smell kerosene. Look in the wagon, please, and see if the lantern
isn't leaking.'

"'In a minute,' answered the cook, busy elsewhere.

"The sheriff went on washing the quail, and when about halfway through
the task, he halted. 'Ignacio, I smell that kerosene again. See if the
lantern isn't upset, or the oil jug leaking.'

"'Just in a minute,' came the answer as before. 'My hands are in the
flour.'

"The big man went on, sniffing the air from time to time, nearly
finishing his task, when he stopped again and pleadingly said: 'Ignacio,
I surely smell kerosene. We're out for a week, and a lantern without oil
puts us in a class with the foolish virgins. Drop your work and see
what the trouble is. There's a leak somewhere.'

"The cook dusted the flour from his hands, clambered up on the wagon
wheel, lifted the kerosene jug, pulled the stopper, smelt it, shook it,
and lifted it above his head in search of a possible crack. The empty
jug, the absence of any sign of leakage, gradually sifted through his
mind, and he cast an inquiring glance at the big sheriff, just then
finishing his task. Invoking heaven and all the saints to witness, he
gasped, 'Mr. Charlie, you've washed the quail in the kerosene!'

"The witless, silly expression that came into that big man's face is
only seen once in a lifetime," said Sargent in conclusion. "I've been
fortunate, I've seen it twice; once on the face of a Texas sheriff, and
again, when you shot a hole in the ground with your eye on an antelope.
Whenever I feel blue and want to laugh, I conjure up the scene of a
Mexican, standing on a wagon wheel, holding a jug, and a six-footer in
the background, smelling the fingers of one hand and then the other."

CHAPTER XIX

AN INDIAN SCARE

The year closed with dry