The feat had excited much uncheerful comment among Squat’s confreres, bets being freely offered that he would be disfigured for life, even if he survived; and what was the sense of monkeying with a thing like that when you could pull your hat down over it?  Of course you couldn’t wear a derby with it; but no one but a darned town dude would ever want to wear a derby hat, anyway, and the trouble with Squat was, he wished to be pretty.  It was dollars to doughnuts the thing would come right back again, twice as big as ever, and better well enough alone.  But Squat, who is also known as Timberline, and is, therefore, a lanky six feet three, is young and sensitive and hopeful, and the veterinary is a matchless optimist; and the thing had been brought to a happy conclusion.

Squat, being now warmly urged, blushingly turned his head from side to side that all might remark how neatly his scar had healed.  The veterinary said it had healed by first intention; that it was as pretty a job as he’d ever done on man or beast; and that Squat would be more of a hit then ever with the ladies because of this interesting chapter in his young life.  Then something like envy shone in the eyes of those who had lately disparaged Squat for presuming to thwart the will of God; I detected in more than one man there the secret wish that he had something for this ardent expert to eliminate.  Squat continued to blush pleasurably and to bolt his food until another topic diverted this entirely respectful attention from him.  The veterinary asked if we had heard about the Indian ruction down at Kulanche last night—­Kulanche Springs being the only pretense to a town between our ranch and Red Gap—­a post-office, three general stores, a score of dwellings, and a low drinking place known as The Swede’s.  The news had not come to us; so the veterinary obliged.  A dozen Indians, drifting into the valley for the haying about to begin, had tarried near Kulanche and bought whiskey of the Swede.  The selling of this was a lawless proceeding and the consumption of it by the purchasers had been hazardous in the extreme.  Briefly, the result had been what is called in newspaper headlines a stabbing affray.  I quote from our guest’s recital: 

“Then, after they got calmed down and hid their knives, and it looked peaceful again, they decided to start all over; but the liquor was out, so that old scar-faced Pyann jumps on a pony and rides over from the camp for a fresh supply.  He pulled up out in front of the Swede’s and yelled for three bottles to be brought out to him, pronto!  If he’d sneaked round to the back door and whispered he’d have got it all right, but this was a little too brash, because there were about a dozen men in the bar and the Swede was afraid to sell an Injin whiskey so openly.  All he could do was go to the door and tell this pickled aborigine that he never sold whiskey to Injins and to get the hell out of there!  Pyann called the Swede a liar and some other things,