“Still, this ontirin’ hold-up goes on menacin’ the leadin’ citizen as former.  Which now Silver Phil demands a bronco, bridled an’ saddled.  He gives the public ten minutes; if the bronco is absent at the end of ten minutes Silver Phil allows he’ll introdooce about a pound of lead into where that village father does his cogitating.  The bronco appears with six minutes to spar’.  As it arrives, the vivacious Silver Phil jumps off the roof of the stoop—­the same bein’ low—­an’ is in the saddle an’ out o’ sight while as practised a hand as Huggins is pourin’ out a drink.  Where the trail bends ’round a mesa Silver Phil pulls up.

“‘Whoop! whoop! whoopee! for Silver Phil,’ he shouts.

“Then he waves the Winchester, an’ as he spurs ’round the corner of the hill it’s the last that spellbound outfit ever sees of Silver Phil.

“Nacherally now,” remarked my old friend, as he refreshed himself with a mouthful of scotch, “you-all is waitin’ an’ tryin’ to guess wherever does Dan Boggs get in on this yere deal.  An’ it won’t take no time to post you; the same bein’ a comfort.

“Not one word do we-all wolves of Wolfville hear of the divertin’ adventures of Silver Phil—­shootin’ up his gyards an’ fetchin’ himse’f free—­ontil days after.  No one in camp has got Silver Phil on his mind at all; at least if he has he deems him safe an’ shore in hock, a-waitin’ to be stretched.  Considerin’ what follows, I never experiences trouble in adoptin’ Doc Peets’ argyments that the eepisodes wherein this onhappy Silver Phil figgers sort o’ aggravates his intellects ontil he’s locoed.

“‘Bein’ this Silver Phil’s a degen’rate,’ declar’s Peets, explanatory, ‘he’s easy an’ soon to loco.  His mind as well as his moral nacher is onbalanced congenital.  Any triflin’ jolt, much less than what that Silver Phil runs up on, an’ his fretful wits is shore to leave the saddle.

“Now that Silver Phil’s free, but loonatic like Peets says, an’ doubly vicious by them tantalisin’ gyards, it looks like he thinks of nothin’ but wreckin’ reprisals on all who’s crossed his trail.  An’ so with vengeance eatin’ at his crim’nal heart he p’ints that bronco’s muzzle straight as a bird flies for Wolfville.  Whoever do you-all reckon now he wants?  Cherokee Hall?  Son, you’ve followed off the wrong waggon track.  Silver Phil—­imagine the turpitoode of sech a ornery wretch!—­is out for the lovely skelp of Faro Nell who detects him in his ha’r-copper frauds that time.

“Which the first intimations we has of Silver Phil after that escape, is one evenin’ about fifth drink time—­or as you-all says ’four o’clock.’  The sun’s still hot an’ high over in the west.  Thar’s no game goin’; but bein’ it’s as convenient thar as elsewhere an’ some cooler, Cherokee’s settin’ back of his layout with Faro Nell as usual on her lookout perch.  Dan Boggs is across the street in the dancehall door, an’ his pet best bronco is waitin’ saddled in front.  Hot an’ drowsy; the street save for these is deserted.