“Railroad men get used to takin’ life on the run, from eatin’ to jokes.  Bill never waited to see the effect of his little spring on me.

“My friend comes up to me.  ‘Is this Mr. Scraggs?’ he says.

“‘I am a modest man by nature,’ says I; ‘and yet I cannot deny it.’

“He made me a bow.  I made him a bow.

“‘I am told, Mr. Scraggs,’ says he, ’that you are a celebrated guide and hunter?’

“‘If you go through this land believing all that’s told you,’ says I, ’you’ll have a queer sensation in your head.  However, I can do plain guiding and hunting, all right.  What am I to guide, and who am I to hunt?’

“’I shall explain to you,” says he, taking off his specks and tapping his hand with ’em—­he was a nice, home-raised old gentleman, but he sure did think his own affairs was interesting.  ‘It is this way,’ says he:  ’my ministerial labors have—­er—­exhausted, that is to say, prostrated me.  My physician insisted I should come to this climate, where I am told it is exceedingly dry and healthful, and live entirely out-of-doors; to return to our healing mother, Nature; to salute the rosy youth of Morning from a couch of sod, to bid farewell to Day from some yearning height, far from the petty madness of cities—­what did you say, Mr. Scraggs?’

“‘I said “Ya-a-s,"’ says I, quick, because I’d forgot myself a trifle.

“‘Ah!’ says he, waving his specks in enthusiasm.  ’The abiding peace of a life like yours!—­I beg your pardon?’

“‘I have an attack of this here bronco-kitus,’ says I.  ’I cough almost like conversation—­go on.’

“‘To live,’ says he, ’in the great peace of these enormous spaces—­to spread God’s clean sky above you and pass into a sleep where this sweet air shall hush me through the night, like the wind from angels’ wings.  With what a sick longing have I looked for this!

“‘That’s it!’ says I.  ’Pardner, you’ve struck it.  There ain’t one man in a thousand thinks of tuckin’ the sky around him when he turns in, but many a time when I’ve shoveled the last batch of centipedes and tarantulas into the fire, petted a side-winder good-night, and fired a farewell shot at a scalplock vanishin’ over the hill, I’ve thought that same thing.  Oh! the soothin’ gooley-woo of windin’ yourself up in a bright-colored sunset and lyin’ down to peaceful dreams!  I sleep too hard to remember about the angels’ wings.’

“I spoke so earnest he swallowed me whole.  ’Centipedes and tarantulas,’ says he, musin’ (evidently he hadn’t figured on ’em); ‘an’ what is a “side-winder,” Mr. Scraggs?’

“‘A “side-winder,” sir,’ says I, ’is a rattlesnake who travels on the bias, as I’ve heard my wife remark about her clothes—­he’s a kind of Freemason; he lets you in on the level and out on the queer.”

“‘Rattlesnake?’ says he; ’ha—­hum—­rattlesnake, yes, yes, yes—­not dangerous, I hope?’

“‘Oh, no!’ says I.  ‘He bites you up somewhat, but it’s only play.’