“I stepped forward with a big fellow, with hair frizzled out like an old buffalo just before shedding time; and the people jawing worse than a cavayard of paroquets, stopped, while frizzly shouted:—­

“‘Mr. Hatcher, formerly of Wapakonnetta, latterly of the Rocky Mountains.’

“Well, there I stood.  Things were mighty strange, and every darned nigger of them looked so pleased like.  To show them manners, I said, ‘How are you?’ and I went to bow, but chaw my last tobacco if I could, my breeches was so tight—­the heat way back in the canyon had shrunk them.  They were too polite to notice it, and I felt for my knife to rip the dog-goned things, but recollecting the scalp-taker was stolen, I straightens up and bowed my head.  A kind-looking, smallish old gentleman, with a black coat and breeches, and a bright, cute face, and gold spectacles, walks up and pressed my hand softly.

“’How do you do, my dear friend?  I have long expected you.  You cannot imagine the pleasure it gives me to meet you at home.  I have watched your peregrinations in the busy, tiresome world with much interest.  Sit down, sit down; take a chair,’ and he handed me one.

“I squared myself on it, but if a ten-pronged buck wasn’t done sucking when I last sot on a chair, and I squirmed awhile, uneasy as a gun-shot coyote; then I jumps up and tells the old gentleman them sort of fixings didn’t suit this beaver, he prefers the floor.  I sets cross-legged like in camp, as easy as eating meat.  I reached for my pipe—­a fellow so used to it—­but the devils in the canyon had cached that too.

“‘You wish to smoke, Mr. Hatcher?—­we will have cigars.  Here!’ he called to an imp near him, ‘some cigars.’

“They was brought in on a waiter, about the size of my bullet-pouch.  I empties them into my hat, for good cigars ain’t to be picked up on the prairie every day, but looking at the old man, I saw something was wrong.  To be polite, I ought to have taken but one.

“‘I beg pardon,’ says I, scratching my scalp, ’this hoss didn’t think —­he’s been so long in the mountains he’s forgot civilized doings,’ and I shoved the hat to him.

“‘Never mind,’ says he, waving his hand and smiling faintly, ’get others,’ speaking to the boy alongside of him.

“The old gentleman took one and touched his finger to the end of my cigar—­it smoked as if fire had been sot to it.

“‘Waugh! the devil!’ screams I, darting back.

“‘The same!’ chimed in he, biting off the little end of his, and bowing, and spitting it out, ‘the same, sir.’

“‘The same! what?’

“‘Why—­the devil.’

“’H—–­l! this ain’t the hollow tree for this coon—­I’ll be making medicine,’ so I offers my cigar to the sky and to the earth, like an Injun.

“‘You must not do that here—­out upon such superstition,’ says he, sharp-like.

“‘Why?’

“‘Don’t ask so many questions—­come with me,’ rising to his feet, and walking off slow and blowing his cigar-smoke over his shoulder in a long line, and I gets alongside of him.  ’I want to show you my establishment—­you did not expect to find this down here, eh?’