One's his fool head, an' the other--well, I don't rightly know what
the other is, 'cep' it's his stummick. Anyways, that's how it is. My
head makes me want to go one way, an' my feet gits me goin' another.
So it is with this lay-out. An' I guess, ef you was sure to git to
rock-bottom o' things, I'd say we're all doin' this thing 'cos Wild
Bill said so."

He finished up with a chuckle that thoroughly upset the equilibrium of
the widower, and set him jumping at the chance of retort.

"Guess you're scairt to death o' Wild Bill," he sneered.

"Wal," drawled Sunny easily, "I guess he's a feller wuth bein' scairt
of--which is more than you are."

Sandy snorted defiantly. But a further wordy war was averted by the
remittance man.

"Ther's more of a man to you than I allowed, Sunny," he said
sincerely. "There sure is. Bill's a man, whatever else he is. He's
sure the best man I've seen on Sufferin' Creek. But you're wrong 'bout
him bein' the reason of us worritin' ourselves sick on this yer trail.
It ain't your head which needs re-decoratin', neither. Nor it ain't
your stummick, which, I allow, ain't the most wholesome part of you.
Neither it ain't your splay feet. You missed it, Sunny, an' I allus
tho't you was a right smart guy. The reason you're on this doggone
trail chasin' glory wot don't never git around, is worryin' along in a
buckboard ahead of us, behind ole Minky's mule, an' he's hoofin' to
home at an express slug's gait. That's the reason you're on the trail,
an' nothin' else. You're jest a lazy, loafin', dirty bum as 'ud make
mud out of a fifty-gallon bath o' boilin' soapsuds if you was set in
it, but you was mighty sore seein' pore Zip kicked to death by his
rotten luck. An' feelin' that always you kind o' fergot to be tired.
That's why you're on this doggone trail. 'Cos your fool heart ain't as
dirty as your carkis."

And as he fired his last word Toby dashed his spurs into the flanks of
his jaded horse, and galloped out of reach of the tide of vituperation
he knew full well to be flowing in his wake.

CHAPTER XXXIV

THE LUCK OF SCIPIO

Suffering Creek was again in a state of ferment. It seemed as if there
were nothing but one excitement after another in the place now. No
sooner was the matter of the gold-stage passed than a fresh
disturbance was upon them. And again the established industry of the
place was completely at a standstill. Human nature could no more
withstand the infection that wa