“Speakin’ of what’s opposite in folks, I one time an’ ag’in sees two white chiefs of scouts who frequent comes pirootin’ into Wolfville from the Fort.  Each has mebby a score of Injuns at his heels who pertains to him personal.  One of these scout chiefs is all buck-skins, fringes, beads an’ feathers from y’ears to hocks, while t’other goes garbed in a stiff hat with a little jim crow rim—­one of them kind you deenom’nates as a darby—­an’ a diag’nal overcoat; one chief looks like a dime novel on a spree an’ t’other as much like the far East as he saveys how.  An’ yet, son, this voylent person in buckskins is a Second Lootenent—­a mere boy, he is—­from West P’int; while that outcast in the reedic’lous hat is foaled on the plains an’ never does go that clost to the risin’ sun as to glimpse the old Missouri.  The last form of maverick bursts frequent into Western bloom; it’s their ambition, that a-way, to deloode you into deemin’ ’em as fresh from the States as one of them tomatter airtights.

“Thar’s old gent Jeffords; he’s that sort.  Old Jeffords lives for long with the Apaches; he’s found among ’em when Gen’ral Crook—­the old ’Grey Fox’—­an’ civilisation and gatlin’ guns comes into Arizona arm in arm.  I used to note old Jeffords hibernatin’ about the Oriental over in Tucson.  I shore reckons he’s procrastinatin’ about thar yet, if the Great Sperit ain’t done called him in.  As I says, old Jeffords is that long among the Apaches back in Cochise’s time that the mem’ry of man don’t run none to the contrary.  An’ yet no gent ever sees old Jeffords wearin’ anything more savage than a long-tail black surtoot an’ one of them stove pipe hats.  Is Jeffords dangerous?  No, you-all couldn’t call him a distinct peril; still, folks who goes devotin’ themse’fs to stirrin’ Jeffords up jest to see if he’s alive gets disasterous action.  He has long grey ha’r an’ a tangled white beard half-way down his front; an’ with that old plug hat an’ black coat he’s a sight to frighten children or sour milk!  Still, Jeffords is all right.  As long as towerists an’ other inquisitive people don’t go pesterin’ Jeffords, he shore lets ’em alone.  Otherwise, you might as well be up the same saplin’ with a cinnamon b’ar; which you’d most likely hear something drop a lot!

“For myse’f, I likes old Jeffords, an’ considers him a pleasin’ conundrum.  About tenth drink time he’d take a cha’r an’ go camp by himse’f in a far corner, an’ thar he’d warble hymns.  Many a time as I files away my nosepaint in the Oriental have I been regaled with,

  Jesus, Lover of my soul,
    Let me to Thy bosom fly,
  While the nearer waters roll,
    While the tempest still is high,

as emanatin’ from Jeffords where he’s r’ared back conductin’ some personal services.  Folks never goes buttin’ in interferin’ with these concerts; which it’s cheaper to let him sing.

“Speakin’ of Injuns, as I su’gests, I never does see over-much of ’em in Wolfville.  An’ my earlier experiences ain’t thronged with ’em neither, though while I’m workin’ cattle along the Red River I does carom on Injuns more or less.  Thar’s one old hostile I recalls speshul; he’s a fool Injun called Black Feather;—­Choctaw, he is.  This Black Feather’s weakness is fire-water; he thinks more of it than some folks does of children.