, shooting right and left. Glass fell
like hail; dogs vamosed; chickens flew, squawking; feminine voices
shrieked concernedly to youngsters at large. The din was perforated at
intervals by the _staccato_ of the Terror's guns, and was drowned
periodically by the brazen screech that Quicksand knew so well. The
occasions of Calliope's low spirits were legal holidays in Quicksand.
All along the main street in advance of his coming clerks were putting
up shutters and closing doors. Business would languish for a space.
The right of way was Calliope's, and as he advanced, observing the
dearth of opposition and the few opportunities for distraction, his
ennui perceptibly increased.

But some four squares farther down lively preparations were being made
to minister to Mr. Catesby's love for interchange of compliments and
repartee. On the previous night numerous messengers had hastened to
advise Buck Patterson, the city marshal, of Calliope's impending
eruption. The patience of that official, often strained in extending
leniency toward the disturber's misdeeds, had been overtaxed. In
Quicksand some indulgence was accorded the natural ebullition of human
nature. Providing that the lives of the more useful citizens were not
recklessly squandered, or too much property needlessly laid waste, the
community sentiment was against a too strict enforcement of the law.
But Calliope had raised the limit. His outbursts had been too frequent
and too violent to come within the classification of a normal and
sanitary relaxation of spirit.

Buck Patterson had been expecting and awaiting in his little
ten-by-twelve frame office that preliminary yell announcing that
Calliope was feeling blue. When the signal came the city marshal rose
to his feet and buckled on his guns. Two deputy sheriffs and three
citizens who had proven the edible qualities of fire also stood up,
ready to bandy with Calliope's leaden jocularities.

"Gather that fellow in," said Buck Patterson, setting forth the lines
of the campaign. "Don't have no talk, but shoot as soon as you can get
a show. Keep behind cover and bring him down. He's a nogood 'un. It's
up to Calliope to turn up his toes this time, I reckon. Go to him all
spraddled out, boys. And don't git too reckless, for what Calliope
shoots at he hits."

Buck Patterson, tall, muscular, and solemn-faced, with his bright
"City Marshal" badge shining on the breast of his blue flannel shirt,
gave his posse directions fo