“‘One time,’ says Perry, ’I was half an hour late getting home.  I met Mariana on the street looking for me.  If you could have seen her, Buck—­but you don’t understand.  She knows what a wild kind of a snoozer I’ve been, and she’s afraid something will happen.  I’ll never be late getting home again.  I’ll say good-bye to you now, Buck.’

“I got between him and the door.

“‘Married man,’ says I, ’I know you was christened a fool the minute the preacher tangled you up, but don’t you never sometimes think one little think on a human basis?  There’s ten of that gang in there, and they’re pizen with whisky and desire for murder.  They’ll drink you up like a bottle of booze before you get half-way to the door.  Be intelligent, now, and use at least wild-hog sense.  Sit down and wait till we have some chance to get out without being carried in baskets.’

“‘I got to be home by seven, Buck,’ repeats this hen-pecked thing of little wisdom, like an unthinking poll parrot.  ‘Mariana,’ says he, ‘will be out looking for me.’  And he reaches down and pulls a leg out of the checker table.  ‘I’ll go through this Trimble outfit,’ says he, ’like a cottontail through a brush corral.  I’m not pestered any more with a desire to engage in rucuses, but I got to be home by seven.  You lock the door after me, Buck.  And don’t you forget—­I won three out of them five games.  I’d play longer, but Mariana—­’

“‘Hush up, you old locoed road runner,’ I interrupts.  ’Did you ever notice your Uncle Buck locking doors against trouble?  I’m not married,’ says I, ’but I’m as big a d——­n fool as any Mormon.  One from four leaves three,’ says I, and I gathers out another leg of the table.  ‘We’ll get home by seven,’ says I, ’whether it’s the heavenly one or the other.  May I see you home?’ says I, ’you sarsaparilla-drinking, checker-playing glutton for death and destruction.’

“We opened the door easy, and then stampeded for the front.  Part of the gang was lined up at the bar; part of ’em was passing over the drinks, and two or three was peeping out the door and window and taking shots at the marshal’s crowd.  The room was so full of smoke we got half-way to the front door before they noticed us.  Then I heard Berry Trimble’s voice somewhere yell out: 

“‘How’d that Buck Caperton get in here?’ and he skinned the side of my neck with a bullet.  I reckon he felt bad over that miss, for Berry’s the best shot south of the Southern Pacific Railroad.  But the smoke in the saloon was some too thick for good shooting.

“Me and Perry smashed over two of the gang with our table legs, which didn’t miss like the guns did, and as we run out the door I grabbed a Winchester from a fellow who was watching the outside, and I turned and regulated the account of Mr. Berry.

“Me and Perry got out and around the corner all right.  I never much expected to get out, but I wasn’t going to be intimidated by that married man.  According to Perry’s idea, checkers was the event of the day, but if I am any judge of gentle recreations that little table-leg parade through the Gray Mule saloon deserved the head-lines in the bill of particulars.