CHAPTER VII.
The Mills of Savage Gods.
"Thar might, of course, be romances in the West," observed the Old Cattleman, reflectively, in response to my question, "but the folks ain't got no time.

Romance that a-way demands leesure, an' a party has to be more or less idlin' about to get what you-all might style romantic action.

Take that warjig whereof I recently relates an' wherein this yere Wild Bill Hickox wipes out the McCandlas gang--six to his Colt's, four to his bowie, an' one to his Hawkins rifle; eleven in all--I asks him myse'f later when he's able to talk, don't he regyard the eepisode as some romantic.

An' Bill says, 'No, I don't notice no romance tharin; what impresses me most is that she's shore a zealous fight--also, mighty busy.' "Injuns would be romantic, only they're so plumb ignorant they never once saveys.

Thar's no Injun word for 'romantic'; them benighted savages never tumblin' to sech a thing as romance bein' possible.