to be riding his own horse at the time.

The Cattleman dropped down beside me a moment later.

"I wish," said he in a low voice, "we could get that fellow talking.
He is a queer one. Pretty well educated apparently. Claims to be
writing a book of memoirs. Sometimes he will open up in good shape,
and sometimes he will not. It does no good to ask him direct, and he
is as shy as an old crow when you try to lead him up to a subject. We
must just lie low and trust to Providence."

A man was playing on the mouth organ. He played excellently well, with
all sorts of variations and frills. We smoked in silence. The deep
rumble of the cattle filled the air with its diapason. Always the
shrill coyotes raved out in the mesquite. Sacatone Bill had finished
his meal, and had gone to sit by Jed Parker, his old friend. They
talked together low-voiced. The evening grew, and the eastern sky
silvered over the mountains in anticipation of the moon.

Sacatone Bill suddenly threw back his head and laughed.

"Reminds me of the time I went to Colorado!" he cried.

"He's off!" whispered the Cattleman.

A dead silence fell on the circle. Everybody shifted position the
better to listen to the story of Sacatone Bill.

About ten year ago I got plumb sick of punchin' cows around my part of
the country. She hadn't rained since Noah, and I'd forgot what water
outside a pail or a trough looked like. So I scouted around inside of
me to see what part of the world I'd jump to, and as I seemed to know
as little of Colorado and minin' as anything else, I made up the pint
of bean soup I call my brains to go there. So I catches me a buyer at
Henson and turns over my pore little bunch of cattle and prepared to
fly. The last day I hauled up about twenty good buckets of water and
threw her up against the cabin. My buyer was settin' his hoss waitin'
for me to get ready. He didn't say nothin' until we'd got down about
ten mile or so.

"Mr. Hicks," says he, hesitatin' like, "I find it a good rule in this
country not to overlook other folks' plays, but I'd take it mighty kind
if you'd explain those actions of yours with the pails of water."

"Mr. Jones," says I, "it's very simple. I built that shack five year
ago, and it's never rained since. I just wanted to settle in my mind
whether or not that damn roof leaked."

So I quit Arizona, and in about a week I see my reflection in the
winders of a little place called Cyanide in the Co