At first they lived in the wagon, which they drew up under one of the trees, while the oxen recuperated and grew fat on the abundant grasses.  Then in spare moments John Gates began the construction of a house.  He was a man of tremendous energy, but also of many activities.  The days were not long enough for him.  In him was the true ferment of constructive civilization.  Instinctively he reached out to modify his surroundings.  A house, then a picket fence, split from the living trees; an irrigation ditch; a garden spot; fruit trees; vines over the porch; better stables; more fences; the gradual shaping from the wilderness of a home—­these absorbed his surplus.  As a matter of business he worked with pick and shovel until he had proved the Honey-bug hopeless, then he started a store on credit.  Therein he sold everything from hats to 42 calibre whiskey.  To it he brought the same overflowing play-spirit that had fashioned his home.

“I’m making a very good living,” he answered a question; “that is, if I’m not particular on how well I live,” and he laughed his huge laugh.

He was very popular.  Shortly they elected him sheriff.  He gained this high office fundamentally, of course, by reason of his courage and decision of character; but the immediate and visible causes were the Episode of the Frazzled Mule, and the Episode of the Frying Pan.  The one inspired respect; the other amusement.

The freight company used many pack and draught animals.  One day one of its mules died.  The mozo in charge of the corrals dragged the carcass to the superintendent’s office.  That individual cursed twice; once at the mule for dying, and once at the mozo for being a fool.  At nightfall another mule died.  This time the mozo, mindful of his berating, did not deliver the body, but conducted the superintendent to see the sad remains.

“Bury it,” ordered the superintendent, disgustedly.  Two mules at $350—­quite a loss.

But next morning another had died; fairly an epidemic among mules.  This carcass also was ordered buried.  And at noon a fourth.  The superintendent, on his way to view the defunct, ran across John Gates.

“Look here, John,” queried he, “do you know anything about mules?”

“Considerable,” admitted Gates.

“Well, come see if you can tell me what’s killing ours off.”

They contemplated the latest victim of the epidemic.

“Seems to be something that swells them up,” ventured the superintendent after a while.

John Gates said nothing for some time.  Then suddenly he snatched his pistol and levelled it at the shrinking mozo.

“Produce those three mules!” he roared, “mucho pronto, too!” To the bewildered superintendent he explained.  “Don’t you see? this is the same old original mule.  He ain’t never been buried at all.  They’ve been stealing your animals pretending they died, and using this one over and over as proof!”