Tres
Hermanas, an' jams labor'ously into a pa'r of laiggin's. The same idee
seizes on Texas an' Tutt yoonanimous. They sees that it only calls for
the intelligent use of that Bar-8 bobcat, which them cow-punchers of
Enright's ties down, to reegen'rate Monte, an' make him white as
snow.

[Illustration: A COUPLE OF ENRIGHT'S RIDERS COMES A PACKIN' A LIVE BOBCAT
INTO TOWN. p. 118.]

"Monte's ain't present none, bein' over to the O. K. House. By bein'
plumb painstakin', Tutt an' Texas gets a collar onto the captive Bar-8
bobcat, an' chains him up over the Red Light bar, in place of the
stuffed bobcat, deeposed. The Bar-8 bobcat jumps off once or twict
before he learns, an' comes mighty clost to lynchin' himse'f. But
Black Jack is patient, an' each time pokes him back with a cha'r.
After mebby the third jump, it gets proned into the bobcat that thar's
nothin' in it for him to go hurlin' himse'f into space that a-way, an'
bein' saved from death by hangin' only through the cha'r-laig
meditations of Black Jack. Acceptin' this yere view, he stands pat on
his shelf. Likewise, he shore looks mighty vivid up thar, an' has got
that former stuffed predecessor of his beat four ways from the jack.

"We're hankerin' around, now the Bar-8 bobcat's organized, waitin' for
Monte to come amblin' up, an' be reformed.

"'An' you can gamble,' Tutt says, 'that the shock it'll throw into
him'll have a ben'ficial effect. Shootin' off a hand or so ain't in it
with the way that drunkard's goin' to feel.'

"'That's the way I figgers,' Texas remarks. 'One glance at that
bobcat, him on the verge of the treemors, an' thar'll a thrill go
through his rum-soaked frame like the grace of heaven through a camp
meetin'. For one, I antic'pate most excellent effects. Whatever do you
think, Doc?'

"'Whatever do I think?' Peets repeats. 'Which I thinks that, as the
orig'nators of this yere cure for the licker habit, it'll be up to you
an' Dave to convey the patient to his room at the O. K. House, as soon
as ever you can control his struggles.'

"Monte at last heaves in sight, an' comes shiverin' up to the bar,
every nerve as tight as a fiddle string. Black Jack shoves him the
bottle.

"'What stuffed anamile sharp,' says Tutt, craftily directin' himself
at Black Jack, 'mounts that bobcat up thar?'

"Monte nacherally raises his eyes. Thar's that Bar-8 feline,
half-crouched, glarin' down on him with green eyes, big as moons.

"That settles it.

"Monte