who had
gone out from Michigan accompanied by an oil-stove and a knowledge of
the English grammar, with the intention of teaching school, but who had
been unable to carry these good intentions into execution for the reason
that there were no children to teach,--at least, none but Bow-legged
Joe. He was a sad little fellow, who looked like a prairie-dog, and who
had very much the same sort of an outlook on life. The other woman was
the brisk and efficient wife of Mr. Bill Deems, of "Missourah." Mr.
Deems had never in his life done anything, not even so much as bring in
a basket of buffalo chips to supply the scanty fire. That is to say, he
had done nothing strictly utilitarian. Yet he filled his place. He
was the most accomplished story-teller in the whole valley, and this
accomplishment of his was held in as high esteem as the improvisations
of a Welsh minstrel were among his reverencing people. His wife alone
deprecated his skill, and interrupted his spirited narratives with
sarcastic allusions concerning the empty cupboard, and the "state of her
back," to which, as she confided to any who would listen, "there was not
a rag fit to wear."

These two ladies had not, as may be surmised, any particular attraction
for John Henderson. Truth to tell, Henderson had not come West with the
intention of liking women, but rather with a determination to see
and think as little of them as possible. Yet even the most confirmed
misogynist must admit that it is a good thing to see a woman now and
then, and for this reason Henderson found it amusing to converse with
the amiable Misses O'Neal. At twenty-five one cannot be unyielding in
one's avoidance of the sex.

Henderson, with his pony at a fine lope, was on his way to town one day,
in that comfortable frame of mind adduced by an absence of any ideas
whatever, when he suddenly became conscious of a shiver that seemed
to run from his legs to the pony, and back again. The animal gave a
startled leap, and lifted his ears. There was a stirring in the coarse
grasses; the sky, which a moment before had been like sapphire, dulled
with an indescribable grayness.

Then came a little singing afar off, as if from a distant convocation
of cicadae, and before Henderson could guess what it meant, a cloud
of dust was upon him, blinding and bewildering, pricking with sharp
particles at eyes and nostrils. The pony was an ugly fellow, and when
Henderson felt him put his forefeet together, he knew w