“Bloojacket is still thar, an’ the sports onder the cottonwood is still gruntin’ joyously over their poker, when thar comes the patter of a bronco’s hoofs.  Thar’s a small dust cloud, an’ then up sweeps the Caldwell beauty.  She comes to a pull-up in front of Bloojacket.  That savage glances up with a inquirin’ eye an’ the glance is as steady as the hills about him.  The Caldwell beauty—­it seems she disdains mournin’—­is robed like a rainbow; an’ she an’ Bloojacket, him standin’, she on her bronco, looks each other over plenty intent.

“Which five minutes goes by if one goes by, an’ thar the two stares into each other’s eyes; an’ never a word.  The poker bucks keeps on with their gamble over onder the cottonwood, an’ no one looks at the two or seems like they heeds their existence.  The poker savages is onto every move; but they’re troo to the Injun idee of p’liteness an’ won’t interfere with even so much as the treemor of a eyelash with other folks’s plays.

“Bloojacket an’ the Caldwell beauty is still gazin’.  At last the Caldwell beauty’s hand goes back, an’ slow an’ shore, brings to the front a eight-inch six-shooter.  Bloojacket, with his eye still on her an’ never a flicker of feelin’, don’t speak or move.

“The Caldwell beauty smiles an’ shows her white teeth.  Then she lays the gun across her left arm, an’ all as solid as a church.  Her pony’s gone to sleep with his nose between his knees; an’ the Caldwell beauty settles herse’f in the saddle so’s to be ready for the plunge she knows is comin’.  The Caldwell beauty lays out her game as slow an’ delib’rate as trees; Bloojacket lookin’ on with onwinkin’ eye, while the red-blanket bucks plays along an’ never a whisper of interest.

“‘Which this yere pistol overshoots a bit!’ says the Caldwell beauty, as she runs her eye along the sights.  ’I must aim low or I’ll shore make ragged work.’

“Bloojacket hears her, but offers no retort; he stands moveless as a stachoo.  Thar’s a flash an’ a crash an’ a cloud of bloo smoke; the aroused bronco makes a standin’ jump of twenty foot.  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.”