e
literature. He used to be Troy," I says to the barkeep, and then I
come here.

"Well, durn his tintype!" says we, "how did you get a look at him?"

"Introduced," says Ag, "he more'n half remembered me, but the strange
place, the new cut in the whiskers, the hearty handshake, and the fact
that I'd just come from N' York did the trick."

"Well, ain't you kind of got it in for him yet?" says the cow-punch.

Ag looked at him. "No," says he, "I revere him. But when he comes to
ringin' in ancient history, he'll find that I'm a wooden horse that can
gallop--that I'm only called Agamemnon for fun. That, really, I used
to spank our former friend, Achilles, to develop his nervous system.
Oh, no!" says Ag, "Troy to me is only a system of measurements, a myth,
or the damnedest hole in the U. S. However, we shall be at the
Christmas tree. And Mr. Troy--Paris will be there, also, as little as
he dreams it."

We spent the next few days in a state of restlessness, because Aggy
said he'd explain when the news would do us good. One thing made the
cow-punch ready for gun practice right off, Mr. Troy was a slippery
cuss, and he had rather ki-boshed Jack Hunter's girl. He hung around
her, fetched and carried, nailed up greens for her and all that, till
you could see he was leaving himself two trails--either skip with the
funds or marry the girl. He had one day left to choose. Having locoed
the townsfolk into giving him the management of the festivities, he
stood well, and he wasn't a bad looker neither. He had an easy,
slippery tongue for a young girl: not like Ag's methods--in any
gatherin' Ag could make George Washington or General Grant look like
visitors--but smooth and languishin'.

I had to calm the cow-punch by telling him we was in a law and order
community, and that shootin' was rude, also that Aggy could be counted
on to do everything necessary. That morning Ag gave me strict orders,
according to which I loped out to a little canyon where a spring
bubbled, and there, sure enough, was Troy, talkin' honey to Jack's
girl. I slid close enough to hear him. He made out a good case, but
when it come to the last card the girl wasn't so interested in the
story. She had sense after all; girls can't be blamed for being a
little foolish. Well, Troy, he argued and urged, till at last up gits
little Lorna and says it's impossible, and that there's another man in
the question, and so Troy stands there mournful till she's