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.Crotalus himself, with his tail in a muddy ditch, and the sun striking cold fire from his slit eyes as he basked his head on a warm stone beside it, could not have typified us better.Percy Briggs took his pipe from his mouth at last and said, with reflective severity:"Well, gentlemen, if we can't get the wagon road over here, and if we're going to be left out by the stagecoach company, we can at least straighten up the camp, and not have it look like a cross between a tenement alley and a broken-down circus.I declare, I was just sick when these two Baker girls started to make a short cut through the camp.Darned if they didn't turn round and take to the woods and the rattlers again afore they got halfway.And that benighted idiot, Tom Rollins, standin' there in the ditch, spattered all over with slumgullion 'til he looked like a spotted tarrypin, wavin' his fins and sashaying backwards and forrards and sayin', 'This way, ladies; this way!'""I didn't," returned Tom Rollins, quite casually, without looking up from his steaming boots; "I didn't start in night afore last to dance 'The Green Corn Dance' outer 'Hiawatha,' with feathers in my hair and a red blanket on my shoulders, round that family's new potato patch, in order that it might 'increase and multiply.' I didn't sing 'Sabbath Morning Bells' with an anvil accompaniment until twelve o'clock at night over at the Crossing, so that they might dream of their Happy Childhood's Home.It seems to me that it wasn't me did it.I might be mistaken—it was late—but I have the impression that it wasn't me."From the silence that followed, this would seem to have been clearly a recent performance of the previous speaker, who, however, responded quite cheerfully:"An evenin' o' simple, childish gaiety don't count.We've got to start in again FAIR.What we want here is to clear up and encourage decent immigration, and get rid o' gamblers and blatherskites that are makin' this yer camp their happy hunting-ground.We don't want any more permiskus shootin'.We don't want any more paintin' the town red.We don't want any more swaggerin' galoots ridin' up to this grocery and emptyin' their six-shooters in the air afore they 'light.We want to put a stop to it peacefully and without a row—and we kin.We ain't got no bullies of our own to fight back, and they know it, so they know they won't get no credit bullyin' us; they'll leave, if we're only firm.It's all along of our cussed fool good-nature; they see it amuses us, and they'll keep it up as long as the whisky's free.What we want to do is, when the next man comes waltzin' along—"A distant clatter from the rocky hillside here mingled with the puff of damp air through the window."Looks as ef we might hev a show even now," said Tom Rollins, removing his feet from the stove as we all instinctively faced toward the window."I reckon you're in with us in this, Mosby?" said Briggs, turning toward the proprietor of the grocery, who had been leaning listlessly against the wall behind his bar."Arter the man's had a fair show," said Mosby, cautiously.He deprecated the prevailing condition of things, but it was still an open question whether the families would prove as valuable customers as his present clients."Everything in moderation, gentlemen."The sound of galloping hoofs came nearer, now swishing in the soft mud of the highway, until the unseen rider pulled up before the door.There was no shouting, however, nor did he announce himself with the usual salvo of firearms.But when, after a singularly heavy tread and the jingle of spurs on the platform, the door flew open to the newcomer, he seemed a realization of our worst expectations.Tall, broad, and muscular, he carried in one hand a shotgun, while from his hip dangled a heavy navy revolver.His long hair, unkempt but oiled, swept a greasy circle around his shoulders; his enormous mustache, dripping with wet, completely concealed his mouth.His costume of fringed buckskin was wild and outre even for our frontier camp.But what was more confirmative of our suspicions was that he was evidently in the habit of making an impression, and after a distinct pause at the doorway, with only a side glance at us, he strode toward the bar."As there don't seem to be no hotel hereabouts, I reckon I kin put up my mustang here and have a shakedown somewhere behind that counter," he said.His voice seemed to have added to its natural depth the hoarseness of frequent overstraining."Ye ain't got no bunk to spare, you boys, hev ye?" asked Mosby, evasively, glancing at Percy Briggs without looking at the stranger.We all looked at Briggs also; it was HIS affair after all—HE had originated this opposition.To our surprise he said nothing.The stranger leaned heavily on the counter."I was speaking to YOU," he said, with his eyes on Mosby, and slightly accenting the pronoun with a tap of his revolver butt on the bar."Ye don't seem to catch on."Mosby smiled feebly, and again cast an imploring glance at Briggs
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