“Tell us about the beautiful blonde,” cried at least three of the ladies.  Dorothy, who had suffered from nightmare because of a former story of hanging men on trees, had voicelessly appealed to Monty to spare her more of that.

“All right, we’ll hev the blond gurl,” said Monty, settling back, “though I ain’t thinkin’ her story is most turrible of the two, an’ it’ll rake over tender affections long slumberin’ in my breast.”

As he paused there came a sharp, rapping sound.  This appeared to be Nels knocking the ashes out of his pipe on a stump—­a true indication of the passing of content from that jealous cowboy.

“It was down in the Panhandle, ’way over in the west end of thet Comanche huntin’-ground, an’ all the redskins an’ outlaws in thet country were hidin’ in the river-bottoms, an’ chasin’ some of the last buffalo herds thet hed wintered in there.  I was a young buck them days, an’ purty much of a desperado, I’m thinkin’.  Though of all the seventeen notches on my gun—­an’ each notch meant a man killed face to face—­there was only one thet I was ashamed of.  Thet one was fer an express messenger who I hit on the head most unprofessional like, jest because he wouldn’t hand over a leetle package.  I hed the kind of a reputashun thet made all the fellers in saloons smile an’ buy drinks.

“Well, I dropped into a place named Taylor’s Bend, an’ was peaceful standin’ to the bar when three cow-punchers come in, an’, me bein’ with my back turned, they didn’t recognize me an’ got playful.  I didn’t stop drinkin’, an’ I didn’t turn square round; but when I stopped shootin’ under my arm the saloon-keeper hed to go over to the sawmill an’ fetch a heap of sawdust to cover up what was left of them three cow-punchers, after they was hauled out.  You see, I was rough them days, an’ would shoot ears off an’ noses off an’ hands off; when in later days I’d jest kill a man quick, same as Wild Bill.

“News drifts into town thet night thet a gang of cut-throats hed murdered ole Bill Warren an’ carried off his gurl.  I gathers up a few good gun-men, an’ we rid out an’ down the river-bottom, to an ole log cabin, where the outlaws hed a rondevoo.  We rid up boldlike, an’ made a hell of a racket.  Then the gang began to throw lead from the cabin, an’ we all hunted cover.  Fightin’ went on all night.  In the mornin’ all my outfit was killed but two, an’ they was shot up bad.  We fought all day without eatin’ or drinkin’, except some whisky I hed, an’ at night I was on the job by my lonesome.

“Bein’ bunged up some myself, I laid off an’ went down to the river to wash the blood off, tie up my wounds, an’ drink a leetle.  While I was down there along comes one of the cutthroats with a bucket.  Instead of gettin’ water he got lead, an’ as he was about to croak he tells me a whole bunch of outlaws was headin’ in there, doo to-morrer.  An’ if I wanted to rescoo the gurl I hed to be hurryin’.  There was five fellers left in the cabin.