“Don’t you dare, sir!” she cried.

So he did not dare.

This vexed her for a moment.  Then, having gone quite out of sight, she sank down and laughed until the tears ran down her cheeks.

“I didn’t think he knew enough!” she said, with a final hysterical chuckle.

This first impression of the Mountain Flower, Bennington would have been willing to acknowledge, was quite complicated enough, but he was destined to further surprises.

When he returned to the Holy Smoke camp he found Old Mizzou in earnest conversation with a peculiar-looking stranger, whose hand he was promptly requested to shake.

The stranger was a tall, scraggly individual, dressed in the usual flannel shirt and blue jeans, the latter tucked into rusty cowhide boots.  Bennington was interested in him because he was so phenomenally ugly.  From the collar of his shirt projected a lean, sinewy neck, on which the too-abundant skin rolled and wrinkled in a dark red, wind-roughened manner particularly disagreeable to behold.  The neck supported a small head.  The face was wizened and tanned to a dark mahogany colour.  It was ornamented with a grizzled goatee.

The man smoked a stub pipe.  His remarks were emphasized by the gestures of a huge and gnarled pair of hands.

“Mr. Lawton is from Old Mizzou, too, afore he moved to Illinoy,” commented Davidson.  One became aware, from the loving tones in which he pronounced the two words, whence he derived his sobriquet.

Lawton expressed the opinion that Chillicothe, of that State, was the finest town on top of earth.

Bennington presumed it might be, and then opportunely bethought him of a bottle of Canadian Club, which, among other necessary articles, he had brought with him from New York.  This he produced.  The old Missourians brightened; Davidson went into the cabin after glasses and a corkscrew.  He found the corkscrew all right, but apparently had some difficulty in regard to the glasses.  They could hear him calling vociferously for Mrs. Arthur.  Mrs. Arthur had gone to the spring for water.  In a few moments Old Mizzou appeared in the doorway exceedingly red of face.

“Consarn them women folks!” he grumbled, depositing the tin cups on the porch.  “They locks up an’ conceals things most damnable.  Ain’t a tumbler in th’ place.”

“These yar is all right,” assured Lawton consolingly, picking up one of the cups and examining the bottom of it with great care.

“I reckon they’ll hold the likker, anyhow,” agreed Davidson.

They passed the bottle politely to de Laney, and the latter helped himself.  For his part, he was glad the tin cups had been necessary, for it enabled him to conceal the smallness of his dose.  Lawton filled his own up to the brim; Davidson followed suit.

“Here’s how!” observed the latter, and the two old turtlebacks drank the raw whisky down, near a half pint of it, as though it had been so much milk.