Others
might look at it from afar, but at the slightest movement to get close
to it, she would push the observer back, with the warning: "Keep yer
dirty fingers off'n it.

"'Tain't common icin'; that's confectionary."

Enough chickens to feed a darky camp-meeting were killed for the feast.
Fried, roasted, cold or minced as tamales, the dishes filled ovens and
tables, and overflowed into the spring-house. Favorite recipes carried
across the plains by the wives of the Argonauts met in rivalry with the
dishes of the cooks of old Mexico.

Colonel Allen wandered aimlessly about the ranch, while the
preparations for the feast were in progress. The women folk drove him
from one favorite loafing-place to another. His advice was scorned and
his wishes made a subject for jests.

Defiantly he had taken full charge of the liquid refreshments. A
friendly barkeeper in Tucson, acting under his orders, had shipped him
cases of champagne, a barrel of beer, and a siphon of seltzer. Why the
seltzer he never could explain. Later the unlucky bottle marred the
supper and nearly caused a tragedy. A guest picked it up and peered
into the metal tube to see "how the durned thing worked."

As he gazed and pondered, shaking the bottle in effort to solve the
mystery, he pressed the handle. The stream struck him fairly between
the eyes. Shocked, surprised, and half-blinded, he pulled his gun and
declared immediate war on the "sheep-herder who had put up the job on
him." Allen's other supplies were of the kind taken straight in the
Southwest, and were downed with a hasty gulp.

Driven from the house on the day of the wedding he took refuge on the
piazza. From behind the hacienda floated dreamily on the sun-drenched
air the music of guitars and mandolins played by Mexicans, practising
for the dance which would follow the ceremony.

The Colonel dozed and dreamed.

Suddenly the peace of the afternoon was shattered by the wild
"yip-yips" of a band of cowboys, riding up the trail. Revolver-shots
punctuated their shrill cries.

Allen bounded from his chair, shaking himself like a terrier. This
riotous sound was the music he longed to hear.

When the staccato beats of the ponies' hoofs ceased, he shouted: "Come
on, boys, make this your home. Everything goes, and the Sweetwater
outfit is always welcome."

The foreman was the first to pull up in front of the house. "Hullo,
Uncle Jim!" he cried.

"Hello, Sage-brush," answered the Co