The Caldwell beauty keeps her saddle, an' with never a swerve or curve goes whirlin' away up the brown, burnt August trail, Bloojacket lays thar on his face; an' thar's a bullet as squar' between the eyes as you-all could set your finger-tip.

Which he's dead--dead without a motion, while the poker bucks plays ca'mly on." My venerable friend came to a full stop.

After a respectful pause, I ventured an inquiry.
"And the Caldwell beauty ?" I said.
"It ain't a week when she's ag'in the star of that Caldwell hurdygurdy where she ropes up Hardrobe first.

Her laugh is as loud an' as' free, her beauty as profoundly dazzlin' as before; she swings through twenty quadrilles in a evenin' from 'Bow-to-your-partners' to 'All-take-a-drink-at-the-bar'; an' if she's preyed on by them Osage tragedies you shore can't tell it for whiskey, nor see if for powder an' paint.".