Under the stimulus of the whisky he picked a quarrel with his wife and attempted to beat her.

She knocked him down with a stove-lid lifter, and the admiring bull-whackers bore him off, leaving the lady in full possession of the ranch.

When I visited her she had a man named Crow Joe working for her, a slab-sided, shifty-eyed person who later, as I heard my foreman explain, "skipped the country with a bunch of horses." The mistress of the ranch made first-class buckskin shirts of great durability.

The one she made for me, and which I used for years, was used by one of my sons in Arizona a couple of winters ago.

I had ridden down into the country after some lost horses, and visited the ranch to get her to make me the buckskin shirt in question.